the artist

Most of the time, if you are looking for my daughter you can find her where ever there are crayons.

Or colored pencils, or pastels or paint or clay or pipe cleaners. The girl is an art machine.

Sometimes she draws with two hands at once . . .


Sometimes we don’t quite know what to make of her. Sometimes I am convinced she is an artist in a way much more intense, much more real than her father and I. That worries me some. But I love it. And I love her and all her incredible, bizarre creations.

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