The paintings were raw and candid, and my chest clenched around my thudding heart as I stared and tried to make sense of what they represented. I got the unsettled sense I was peering directly into the artist’s soul, right to where his demons thrashed and thrived. Depictions of ghosts that screamed and howled. Demons that climbed from fiery flames to crawl and ravage the Earth. Vague, obscured faces were woven in, as if they were hidden in the scene, prisoners that didn’t belong but were stuck there, anyway. Others were stark, haunting beauty. Stars and eternity and lost hope. Each was
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