Painters, sculptors, and the ones who chased chickens across canvas.

How do you paint a wild bird at exact life size without it moving?

What if the sheet music tattooed across a damned soul's buttocks in a 500-year-old painting of Hell turns out to be... actually playable?

What does a 59-year-old Baptist preacher do when a face appears in a smudge of paint on his fingertip and tells him to start painting?

What kind of master criminal steals a Gainsborough, then sleeps on top of her for twenty-five years?

How does a shrimp seller who couldn't swim, living alone on a sandspit reachable only by boat, end up on Betty Parsons's walls beside Pollock and Rothko?

What does a self-taught artist do when the family finally retires the wood stove and his only source of ink disappears?

What if the first abstract paintings in Western art were commissioned by a spirit named Amaliel for a temple that didn't exist?

She started on Masonite, then cookie sheets, then scallop shells, then the breadbox — and then she ran out of small things.

What does it take for a toll collector who painted tigers in his off-hours to end up enthroned on a packing crate at a banquet thrown by Picasso?

A terrified little man taught crafts to bored teenagers in Drohobycz and wrote two of the strangest books of the twentieth century, until the SS officer next door decided he wanted a Jew of his own.

He won the 1906 Nobel Prize for proving the brain is built from separate cells. He found out by drawing them, on an ink-stained tablecloth, for fifty years.

Issued one pencil a week, he spent thirty-five years balancing the ledgers of a universe he'd crowned himself emperor of.