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

A road inspector for Le Corbusier's rationally planned Chandigarh spent eighteen years cycling into a protected forest after work to build a secret twelve-acre kingdom of gods and goddesses out of smashed pottery, broken bangles, and discarded toilet bowls.

Marcel Proust wrote most of his novel in a cork-lined bedroom he fumigated five times a day with a hallucinogenic nightshade powder.

The man who signed a urinal and hung it in a gallery quit modern art for competitive chess, and then married an heiress who lasted seven months.

What do you do when your court painter, a decorated cathedral man, starts rendering your jurist as a heap of raw poultry pinned around a syphilitic face?

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.