I rounded the corner at The Modern and there it was: Picasso's Guernica mural blown up from small reproductions in art history books to cover a gigantic wall. I was instantly encapsulated in the wantonness of war, unable to move or speak. Never had a painting affected me so profoundly as it came crashing in: the terror I felt as a girl hiding under my school desk during drills. Would I ever see my family again if bombs actually fell?