[...] Whatever vague concept of truth I had previously tried to represent in pigment had evaded me, not because I lacked skill but because truth simply did not exist, especially not in art. Yes, I told myself, standing before the unstretched canvas, sipping from a jug of martinis Webb had fixed for us, I would try to take the low road. Wherever it led, I would take it, even if there wasn’t a road, even if it was just a dirt path or not even a path at all, a cornfield or a marshy swamp. Or even if, in all likelihood, the path to success was more like one of those human conveyor belts at the airport, I had to allow myself to take it. [...]