Art isn’t a pedestrian stroll; it’s a razzle-dazzle, a grand pas de deux on the cosmic dance floor, waltzing and whirling to a rhythm only artists can hear. Leading the conga line in this celestial soiree, we find the likes of Louise Brooks, the silent-era screen siren; L. Frank Baum, master of Oz’s yellow brick road; Lewis Carroll, the doyen of Wonderland; and David Lynch, the maestro of the peculiar and unsettling. Brooks’ life story, penned in her memoir Lulu in Hollywood, serves as a dance manual for aspiring artists, a shimmy through the labyrinth of Hollywood’s glamour and her self-imposed solitude in Rochester. It’s the jitterbug of resilience, the…