But I saw my father’s face in their words, his bulging forehead, his yellow eyeballs that widened in their sockets each time he was furious. I remember challenging him to a fist fight.
Apropos of writing an essay on the experience of plodding through a difficult time in my life, I have been thinking about what suffering means for the artist. The process of writing that essay, as one would expect, was a dark affair layered with distress and pain. I wrote in spurts, never steadily, as both …
