Ivan Picelj, perhaps my favorite Croatian artist ever, has died. To his credit, he was eighty-seven. My beloved has collected quite a number of his prints, and I have lived among them for quite a while, but they suddenly look different to me. Finished, as it were. My many complaints about this or that are now meaningless. This is how they have been for years, but it is ever-so-slightly different now. Out of the blue, my complaints seem to be out of place to me, too. Who cares about this or that? The man is dead, for crying out loud! To my surprise, I feel like retreating at this point. I feel like retreating all the way. My complaints were minor, anyway. Only about conception and composition and color and printing and…