My grandmother, Anne

My grandmother was named Anne, too. Long before I understood that making art could be a way of moving through the world, I understood it through her: in the patient attention she gave to a color, a shape, and the particular way light rested on a familiar place.

She was an amazing artist. Her work made room for both wonder and work—the looking, the revising, the willingness to begin again. She taught me that an artist does not have to wait for a grand occasion. There is always something worth noticing: a horizon, a quiet corner, the feeling a place leaves behind.

I carry her name with gratitude, but I carry her example even more closely. Whenever I am unsure what to make next, I think of Anne and return to the simplest instruction she gave without saying it: look carefully, and make something honest from what you find.