The studio

l

t in the real world. People bored him. Their conversations w

t. Art was pure.

s father died, he felt nothing. When his mother cried for weeks, he stared at her

believed the human form was the highest expression of art. But most a

ck him. Loud. Unfiltered. He followed her for days, sketching

He killed for truth. In death

two paintings to pieces sold at a private gallery the year before. The signatures