Whenever I go to an art museum, I inevitably find myself in the decorative arts section. The excess in the richest of Rococo, Baroque rooms; the dark wood of medieval furniture; the lush tapestries; the stately splendor of Neoclassical decoration. These are the things that make me wish I could go back in time and feel the upholstery of that chair, the silk of this curtain, against my own skin. To be able to call it mine. I wonder if it’s this wishful thinking that excites me most about art.