When David Bowie burst into America’s consciousness in the early 1970s, he was the sort of pop music star the world had never seen before — an androgynous, pasty-faced English enigma with a bouffant of flaming red hair, who sang not of romance or fast cars, but of an extraterrestrial savior coming to rescue our planet from itself.
Who put the first paintbrush in the hands of Leonardo da Vinci? The stylus in the hands of Auguste Rodin? The guitar in the hands of Keith Richards?
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