My father papered the walls of his studio in crisp white washi, covered in schools of Gyotaku: ink prints of fish he’d caught throughout his career. I probe the paper like I’m noodling for a bite until I fumble on the light switch. The LEDs mimic natural light–my father would accept no less. He demanded his works be displayed bathed in sunlight. They usually are, I suppose, though an overpriced sushi restaurant or a software developer’s beach house probably isn’t what he had in mind. In the last month, all those pieces have been resold for ten times the original price. Even these walls are likely worth hundreds of thousands, now. My father was a much better businessman than I thought, if it’s true what they all say. If he meant to die.