Egon Schiele made 'Krumau on the Molde, The Small City', a painting with an unknown date, that looks like it was conjured up from some strange dream. The paint is laid on with an impatient touch; it’s all surface, no depth, but there's still some real presence. This isn't just a picture of a town; it’s a town being built, or maybe unbuilt, right before our eyes. Look at the way the buildings are squeezed together, teetering on the edge of that dark river. Each one is outlined with such care and detail, almost obsessively so, and the colors, those muted greens and reds, make it feel alive. It reminds me a bit of someone like Marsden Hartley who was also obsessed with depicting very personal and raw emotions. But Schiele? He just goes deeper into the bone. Art, like life, is about embracing these ambiguities.