Sometimes I ventured to the McNay to gaze upon Kirchner’s Portrait of Hans Frisch, which endlessly fascinated me. In the painting, the subject is reclining on a love seat, his face a contemplative mélange of mustard, plant-green, and navy hues. Other times I made my way to the San Antonio Museum of Art, where I scared myself shitless with the Oceania exhibits. All the old vessels contained spiritual echoes of erased tribes. Standing in a room with recovered artifacts—war tools and masks with exaggerated eyes and preserved hair—made me feel vulnerable and haunted, so I preferred being around
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