When I was a young child, I would often pull books off of my father’s shelf and stare at their pages. In a clip from a 1987 home video that has established itself in our family canon — my father opens our apartment door, welcoming my newborn little sister home for the first time. There I stood, waiting for his arrival, in front of his bookshelves, holding an open book. From behind the camera, Dad said, “There’s Chris looking at the books. He doesn’t read the books…” I’m not sure I caught the remark at the time, but with every replay — and there were many — it began to sting. The truth was I didn’t really know what I was doing, but I did know my Dad was right — I wasn’t reading the books. Had I known then what I know now, I might have shared these words, from the artist Piet Mondrian, with my Dad:
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