That wonder was perched on the back wall of a dusty garage, ripe with the funk of mildew. No other art was visible anywhere. That seemed like a clear signal.
But the view elsewhere, from a blue room with three walls of windows, trumped that extraordinary and unexpected attempt by the universe to play with my affections. In the end, I was won over by a small wooden bridge across private marshes, leading to walls of trees and the faint ruins of trails unused for years.