Shame on me, an art critic, but these are two pictures I could never have imagined at 18. Me, at 36, the editor-in-chief of an English-language art gallery, and fighter jets whizzing into our homes. I was almost conscripted. If I had been, I would be writing this book under artillery fire. An art critic. With a Winnie the Pooh tattoo on his neck. A contract killer. Reader, I understand that this sounds like complete bullshit, but you must believe me, if only because such a thing is impossible...