Rousseau was one of those artists who died before his paintings received great recognition. He also had a tough life; two wives died, along with seven children. He died of a leg infection at the age of 66. When I look at some of his paintings, I think of worlds that exist only in a child’s imagination. I think of tall tales and wild dreams. This is where the definitions of “wilderness” and “wildness” overlap. I think of escapism, but not like a cheap novel. This is a one-of-a-kind escape from the everyday world. This is the artist allowing us into his psyche. I must say that I enjoy it. His paintings are fun and weird and they invite the viewer to be fun and weird, too.