Edvard Munch made this painting of Cupid and Psyche in Oslo, and it just oozes with process. I mean, look at the way the colors run and drip, the warm shades of orange and brown smearing into each other, so that the two figures almost aren't there, they're just emerging. It's like they're caught between being and not being, which, let's face it, is how love often feels! It's all so physical, you can feel the brushstrokes, the artist's hand moving across the canvas, revealing, and concealing. There’s a particular stroke right on Cupid’s back that just cuts through the darkness, and it makes you wonder, what’s hidden beneath? It reminds me a little of Francis Bacon, that sense of the figure dissolving, becoming something else entirely. It's art as a conversation, an ongoing exploration.