Three years ago, I saw death close-up for the first time. My grandmother, after a long and full life, died at home surrounded by family. I can still remember how viscerally the sound of death lingered around her breaths that day.

After that, for the first time, Francisco Goya’s painting Saturn Devouring His Son was no longer creepy or unsettling to me.

I thought of it that night, alone, in bed, even though I hadn’t seen or thought about the painting in years.

Somehow, it made sense.

I still don’t like looking at this painting—it’s not pleasurable to look at—but it’s no longer alien. I feel like I can speak somewhat of the language of the artist, the inchoate expression that he was putting into form. (Pardon the art-school language.)

I’d prefer not to post this image on my site. I’d prefer not to look at the body of my grandfather, who died this week. There are a lot of things that I’d prefer not to do, but that life dictates otherwise.

That is why I believe in art.

It’s crazy to me how much art can help make sense of the world, and how some art doesn’t make any sense until you need it.

There is art that is bullshit, but then there is art that communicates something so deeply that it bypasses words and goes straight for the heart.

This is the art we need.