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The photograph is nothing heroic. I am not painting. I am washing my brushes. Apron speckled with paint, hands immersed in the sink at the Academy of Fine Arts, I look at the camera with a faint, almost mischievous smile. Behind me, the smell of turpentine. A scent that, years later, would become so familiar it would merge with the very idea of the studio. I do not remember deciding to become an artist.I remember a space. The Academy was a place apart. A territory devoted to