Each piece was composed of five separate canvases, and to see the whole work one must look at them in whatever order and hold in the mind the impression and image of each. To look at a single one alone, or to look at all of them as if they were a panorama, was to misunderstand. The work did not—could not—exist in paint: it existed in the mind as a conjunction, and all five parts must be apprehended at once. Part of the experience was the stretching of the mind, the tearing and repairing of the remembered images. I was making of each person in my audience a zoetrope, save that it was not the illusion of motion that I created by deceiving the eye, but the truth of things as I now understood them, set from my mind into art and then released by the act of observation into theirs. Each painting was not an image of the world but of my mind as it assembled that world for me, and in that it revealed the truth of all art all the time.