Were I a would-be TV presenter in search of a role model, Andrew Graham-Dixon would fit the frame. As well as wielding copious explanatory powers about art, he comes over as quite butch, with such non-effete features as a vigorously sane hairstyle and powers of elocution not even half as crazy as some other arty presenters we could name. In the opening chapter of his BBC mega-series, The Art Of France, he was not afraid of the bold statement: “Like every great country, France has always been a mongrel nation.”

This was especially bold because it suggested that Japan, for example, had never existed. Even today, it is almost impossible for a foreign artist, or indeed a foreign anything, to take up residence in Japan, whose intellectuals will tell you unblushingly that the true secret of their cultural coherence is that the nation is “homogeneous”, meaning they don’t let the buggers in.

But Graham-Dixon was on about France, not Japan, so the sweeping statement fitted. He lounged unobtrusively around Sainte-Chapelle as if it were possible, even mandatory, to stay sane in the brilliant light of so much beauty. When you consider that the BBC has had several wildly gesturing presenters who could not have lounged around Sainte-Chapelle without taking off through the roof, this was a miracle on the scale of Lucy Worsley wearing an ordinary skirt instead of dressing up as the first Queen Elizabeth. I love Lucy, but stylewise there can be no doubt she is a fever for which Andrew is the cure. Nevertheless, she makes me watch.

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As does Waldemar Januszczak, for all his extravagant physical gymnastics when combining the twin tasks of walking and speaking. The master of the tricky Triple Forward Handspring While Explaining Michelangelo might put you off himself, but he won’t put you off Michelangelo. (Imagine our Queen’s nervousness as the day approaches when she or someone near her must say “Arise, Sir Waldemar Thing.”) In fact, I’ve just done a mental survey of the arts presenters and can’t find any I hate, except the occasional poltroon who thinks his theories have deep political significance.

Art might have that, but theories about art can’t. I have a theory about why not, but I’m running out of time. In Japan, at the start of the year, the bells of the Buddhist temples are rung 108 times as a reminder of the 108 sins. The poet Jokun wrote: “I intended/Never to grow old,/But the temple bell sounds.” Great poem, and I’d love to learn it by heart, just as soon as I figure out why the bell-ringers think there are so few sins.