Once upon a time, I dreamed of a life where I would move to chicago and study medieval art history under michael camille.
Together, we could delve into the world of gothic architecture. he’d explain how, spatially, the cathedrals were designed to keep the penitents’ eyes upwards, constantly directed towards heaven. i’d theorize flimsy links between architectural design and poetic construction in "pearl" and "sir gawain" and then we’d ride off into the sunset on unicorns of gold. Then, I got to college and my beloved thesis adviser told me michael camille was dead. True story, that is.