And then there was my teacher, Robert Henri. A tall man with a surprisingly small face, he was filled with the kind of certainties that bolstered my own reticence. Before I left the city for the summer, he had spoken to me about the value of solitude, had warned me about disappearing into others, letting their voices echo, pollute singular, clear thought. He had instructed me to contain my own reactions, to express my feelings to no one, nothing, except to the paper or canvas. ‘Each sensation is precious,’ he would lecture. ‘Protect it, cherish it, keep it. Never give it away. You must develop that balance which allows all of the world to come in to you and only that which you have expressed in your art to move back out again into the world. When you are alone, without the distraction of community and affection, this will be easier to achieve.’