Good art haunts you for hours, or days, or months, resurfacing in unexpected moments: in the contoured arc of a stone bridge that’s reminiscent of a ballerina’s arch; in an encounter with a stranger – the man your novel’s protagonist would have been if only he had lived; or the moment in the woods when (spooked by your approach) the birds flutter free of their perches in an evergreen, flashing such vibrant streaks of red, blue, yellow, black, and gray that you feel you’ve entered a Pollock canvas brought mystically to life.
But the best art is even more than this: it seeps into your soul, alters your dna, and grows like an exquisite cancer, expanding and recoiling with every breath of your life.
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