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Some years ago, a symbolist painter named Gail Potocki asked me to sit for her. I was flattered and promised myself that I would go to bed at a decent hour, wake up early, apply tasteful hints of blush and mascara, arrange my hair in artfully cascading waves, and arrive at her studio on time. Instead, I showed up more than an hour late on less than an hour of sleep, hair tangled, with Baby Jane makeup that I’d slapped on in the car. I was convinced that she wouldn’t notice because, at the time, I thought I was hiding it so well. But when the painting was finished—my face obscured, my body twisted against a black and vaguely war-torn landscape—I knew I wasn’t fooling anyone. The things that were defining my existence—the angst, isolation, and drugs—were right there on the canvas. Despite whatever lengths I’d gone to conceal it, the painter had seen the truth.