I was in Paris recently and trekked down into the famed catacombs. In the chilly, damp, low light I walked 2 kilometers through the cramped tunnels that were lined with human remains. Peering at one of the skulls, I thought, “Who were you?” Then I pulled back again to look at the wall it was a part of. An intricate mosaic of femurs and skulls, shaped and organized to create an elaborate pattern. All those weathered porcelain heads creating holy crosses with femurs holding them together like small flower shaped bricks. Mind blowing to behold. 6 million Parisians here underneath the city. And I had walked 130 steps down to be there with them. Staring into that skull’s eyes, wondering, who was this person in this mass anonymous grave.

And it’s the art that tells me.