I need to be up there, smelling the paints, talking to the canvas, cracking my knuckles, priming myself. When I go back, I can’t do any of those things, I can only pace. I force myself to sit down, but my hands won’t stay still, so I go over to the computer and Google Edgar Degas and Isabella Stewart Gardner.
I was hooked on B. A. Sharpio’s The Art Forger from the first sentence (or two): “I step back and scrutinize the paints. There are eleven, although I have hundreds, maybe thousands.”