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EARLY THE NEXT morning, Ivy woke before dawn to watch the sunrise bring life to the brilliant shades of Chagall, the fanciful work of Klee, and the magical artistry of Marc’s towering blue horses, among the other paintings she had propped up around her bedroom. Ivy swallowed against a lump in her throat. Knowing the artists’ stories brought up a flood of emotion.
But today, time wasn’t a commodity to be wasted. She didn’t have much more time with these masters.
She kicked off the sheets and padded around the room, viewing the canvases from different angles as the light shifted in the room. To her, painting was more than mere brush strokes on canvas, sketching more than lines on papers. Pausing before each work rejuvenated her creative wellspring.
Creating art fed her soul and brough
