MY FATHER’S PAINT BOX was made of leather-covered wood, worn at the corners so the wood showed through. As a child, I loved opening that box, looking at the inner compartments intended for tubes of oil paint, now crazed with dried blotches. The paints were long gone when, decades ago, I lifted the lid and looked inside, but I could see lines where brushes had lain in a mess of creativity. My father had not struck me as a man capable of mess, but he was.