Does the thought of waking with the dawn make you feel like you have been delivered a kind of death sentence? Or does your body naturally orient itself to the rhythm of the sun and feel energized by it.

Famed dancer and choreographer, Agnes de Mille once said, "The artist never entirely knows. We guess. We may be wrong, but we take leap after leap in the dark"

This "being in the dark" is a familiar—but not altogether ferocious—fiend in between the precious few moments of clarity. The dark, as I have discovered, can be a quiet refuge, as a womb, just biding time waiting for birth.

Art is not and has never been just a pretty picture to hang on the wall. Its power, if you allow it, goes way beyond decoration. One of art’s fundamental functions is to transform; to transform our world and our view, to allow us to pay attention, to open our minds and our senses to something beyond the veil.

The Tibetans have a similar way of dealing with anything we might view as uncomfortable, such as death or fear, or other unsettling emotions: make friends with them, invite them in, accept them as they are.

Having been topless on public beaches and even spending a vacation once at a clothing optional venue in Tulum, Mexico, I used to feel pretty comfortable being naked in public. The pleasure of having your body kissed by sun and surf without the confines of even a string bikini trumped whatever trepidation I might have had about being ogled.

What is it about nature specimens that fascinates some of us? A vestigial remembrance of beauty?