What creeps in is something transformative. The blurring is an exact visual technique for what happens in the mind as memories of faces, even familiar and cherished ones, fade and distort over time. It gives his portraits a sense of universality too: as the features dissolve slightly the sitters lose their individuality and become everyman and everywoman, people we feel we might just know. They become people too on whom one can project stories and emotions: it is not the sitter's personality that is on display but the viewer's. Those people on the beach, that family group, the mother and daughter walking along the street, they are part of our own circle. So much, ironically, for Richter's fear of subjectivity.

It is a technique that he is still using, although it works better with some subjects than others. There is, for example, a composite portrait of Gilbert and George here that is too arch and referential because it tips the balance between who he paints and how he paints. When, though, he paints his daughter Betty or his wife reading a magazine there is, beneath that subtly distorting picture surface, a disturbing flicker of Richter's complex feelings towards them, feelings that, despite himself, edge upwards through the painterly mist.

An altogether different but equally resonant exhibition is coming to a close at the Dulwich Picture Gallery. Veronese: The Petrobelli Altarpiece reunites, for the first time since the 1780s, the four surviving fragments from Paolo Veronese's huge painting of 1563 in the Franciscan church at Lendinara, near Ferrara. The picture was cut up when the order was suppressed: Dulwich owns one of the pieces, the others have been brought in from Edinburgh and Ottawa together with a newly discovered fragment from Austin, Texas.

The painting shows the dead Christ supported by angels floating above the figure of St Michael - alas, most of his body still missing - flanked by the donors, the Petrobelli cousins, with their attendant saints. Although it remains heavily mutilated, this reconstruction shows what an awe-inspiring picture it once was. In the late 18th century, the Scottish artist Gavin Hamilton wrote how the dismembered altarpiece was "sold just like meat in a butcher's shop, poor Paolo, poor Painting". But if it is meat, it is nevertheless the choicest cuts.