Another day, another magnificent cathedral, one more time I stumble over a ledge, neck bent back, eyes craning to see every detail of these masterful works of art. These “thin places”, as Gregg calls them, are getting to me. My eyes are moist, but I’m not crying, just a little emotional. I do not know why, I wouldn’t consider myself a spiritual person per se. I don’t know where these strong feelings come from, or what they are about, but maybe that’s not important. I still cannot understand how it is that these inanimate objects take hold of me, almost control me, by their subtle inflections of meaning. How is it that humans have the capacity to create such an image – using form, perspective, and proportion – to transform us. Art does not just make me feel; it provides a window – no, a door – between what I know and what I feel, between what I understand and what I don’t. To say that art transforms us is an understatement – it destroys our pride, it tears down what we think we know, subverting what we believe to be truth. The essence of creativity is originality: something is there that was not there before.