Sunlight streams in from Musée d’Orsay’s convex glass ceiling, reflecting off whitewashed walls, golden frames, and marble floors. This museum in midsummer is a greenhouse for the artist’s mind. I saunter past heavily accented tour guides, their flamingo pink umbrellas bobbing dangerously in the air, and pedantic Frenchmen, their melodic voices rising and falling like the crests of waves as they staunchly insist: Picasso was sane. I emerge from the throngs unscathed, and there I am, all five feet nine inches of my gangly self, in front of the most captivating work in all the world, Renoir’s Moulin de la Galette. Two feet away, I observe the dappled regions of light and dark, just enough to know these are the shadows of trees, just enough to let my imagination handle the rest. Wealthy revelers pirouette across the courtyard, sashay to strains of Debussy, and gossip until day’s end. Soft powdered faces topped with red ringlets of hair stare out questioningly at me. Hundreds of others recede into the background, fading into mere patches of blues, blacks, and yellows. As I step closer, outlines fade and subjects become wholly unrecognizable. Nineteenth-century chandeliers, top hats, and floral gowns vanish into this sweltering heat.