The tragedy of life is in what dies inside a man while he lives - the death of genuine feeling the death of inspired response the awareness that makes it possible to feel the pain or the glory of other men in yourself.

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Imagine it's 1981. You're an artist in love with art smitten with art history. You're also a woman with almost no mentors to look to art history just isn't that into you. Any woman approaching art history in the early eighties was attempting to enter an almost foreign country a restricted and exclusionary domain that spoke a private language.