Go to Greg Kucera with blinders on. Head straight to the back room and stare at a scrap of paper that tunnels into the world of the long dead, purportedly autistic Idahoan artist James Castle (1900–1977). This paper is masterfully worked up with soot and spit, Castle's invented and preferred medium, applied with sharpened sticks. The scene is called Interior. It's a typical room depicted almost typically, using the devices of formal perspective to give depth and a source of light to cast shadows. Situated among other drawings that are rather typical portraits and landscapes (in a folk art sort of way), Interior is dramatically different. A wood-slatted wall implodes into miniature rooms. Complex outbuildings pour in, complete with congenial inhabitants. What's wonderful about this portrayal of mundane domesticity containing a magical porthole to the outside world is that they both seem equally real, equally typical, and equally important. Realism is broken through so gently that it isn't broken at all.

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