Dear Robert, 

Often as I lie awake I wonder if you are also lying awake. Are you in pain or feeling alone? You drew me from the darkest period of my young life, sharing with me the sacred mystery of what it is to be an artist. I learned to see through you and never compose a line or draw a curve that does not come from knowledge I derived in our precious time together.

“Oh, take their picture,” said the woman to her bemused husband, “I think they’re artist.”

“Oh, go on,” he shrugged. “They’re just kids.”