Beta Mu hangs on a wall by itself. It’s massive: 102 x 170 inches. Thin lines of paint mixed with turpentine run down in diagonals and stain untreated canvas. The v-shaped center, the largest part, is naked. An inverted empty pyramid. It looks like two heaving lungs, I say to no one. A woman passing by turns and looks—at me, at the painting, at me. She walks away. What I mean is that it helps me to remember to breathe.