I got to see all the art I’d always dreamed of seeing. I loved filling my head with pictures, pictures that didn’t have anything to do with me or with death. Until one day I realized that life imitates death, especially in artwork. The art of the past is all about death—the artists die and their art remains, a testament to the living and the dead. The realization was a powerful one. I didn’t feel nearly as alone, or nearly as odd. I even wondered at times, gazing at something truly awe-inspiring, if all artists didn’t commune with spirits.
