I walked into MOMA in 1976 and fell in love: with a painting. It was a coup de foudre. The first thing that drew me to it was the wacky, white scalloped frame.

Burchfield explained, “To the child sitting cozily in his home , the roar of the wind outside fills his mind full of visions of strange phantoms and monsters flying over the land.”

I am writing about Agnes Martin because her work approaches me initially where I think I live, a place of attained quietness through years of meditation.

Paul Gauguin’s ham is like an archeological dig site with remnants of the porcine ancestor embedded in its terrain. The untamed progenitor of domesticated pigs, sus scrofa, or wild boar, haunts the charcuterie.