Cleo cast her eyes around the courtyard. It struck her that somehow, miraculously, she was. In the seven months since she came to Rome, she had made art every day, rediscovering the pleasures of both solitude and community. She ate breakfast in the kitchen with the other artists on residency and reconvened with them every evening to discuss the day’s work over wine and pasta. She had seen the single bed where Keats took his final breath and walked with her face upturned through the Sistine Chapel, devouring the medley of gold and flesh and sky. She loved New York, but it was not her city, she
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