Ever since I was little I loved art. From the vast museums of Renoir’s life posted on the walls, to the smaller showcases of local art and history, my mind was fascinated, even at a very young age, of the dedication and execution of each perfect brush stroke or each sculpture handcrafted with hours of precision. I remember once when Donatello’s works came to my city. As I stared at one of his paintings of a man crying, it looked like he did not paint with oils, but somehow, with lights. I could see the reflection of the fictitious background in his tears. Genius.