Nearly. The circumstances surrounding the death of Emma Bee Bernstein, a photographer who committed suicide inside the Peggy Guggenheim museum in Venice, [have] haunted me since it took place in 2008. Emma was barely an acquaintance—we met only twice, and she was several years younger than I—but the death itself was shocking. I have wondered since it happened if any action so tragic can ever be interpreted or validated as anything other than suicide. In greater contemporary art history, I’ve always been fascinated by the atmosphere surrounding Francesca Woodman and Ana Mendieta, both of whose postmortem hyperglorification struck me as both hopelessly romantic and wildly unfair. Woodman and Mendieta had, like every other female artist, to die in order to be taken seriously. Lee Lozano, too, who made a commitment to leave the art world and die in an unmarked grave (which she did), is hugely fascinating to me, and I genuinely think her Wave paintings are a window to the divine. They’re shockingly, absolutely arrestingly, good. Yet she got pushed out—or pushed herself out—somehow.