When I was growing up, the Art Institute of Chicago had a real, honest-to-goodness treasure chest behind the central staircase on the main floor. This was not just a plain box, up-graded to Arabian Night stature via rose-colored remembrances. It was a real treasure chest, worthy of Long John Silver’s scowl or Aladdin’s cave. Its brass-studded lid was elaborately engraved, its lush interior was upholstered in red velvet, and it was filled with glittering coins. A small sign above this remarkable container proclaimed that any cash contributed (Clink. Clink. Clink) to the chest would pay for art student tuition at the Art Institute School.

Art student tuition!

Romance on top of Romance!

What child intent on becoming an adventuress could stand before such an Altar of Art and resist tossing pennies, nickels, dimes and dreams through the burnished-brass mesh to bounce, glisten and tinkle against the other nickels, dimes, quarters and sometimes even dollar bills already amassed below?

I glared and stared at the treasure. I dreamed, not of what money could buy, but of lives dedicated to sculpture, to painting, to art. I conjured up images of slim and starving artists in garret rooms. At the bottom of that chest, I saw what I wanted from life: The pure and unadulterated passion to create, and therefore to be really and truly alive.