I thought I’d never see my artist wife again.
While I was walking out of the Art Institute of Chicago, this particular hallway struck me as fairly plain for an art museum.
Tucked into the quiet lower level, it had calm, white walls flanking a diagonally laid hardwood floor. To its left, an open-air courtyard nestled up against it, visible only through the windows. Straight ahead was a staircase to the main level. And, to the right, was a wall with a work of art on it. Which piece? I don’t remember. I was concerned mostly with what was behind me.
As I glanced back, worry, apprehension, and fear rushed toward me.
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