B. Lucy Stevens
I paint what I see, what I remember, and what I imagine and it all gets mixed together, like it is in my mind. I crave solitude but fear isolation. There are times I cannot stop painting—I make a cup of tea and forget to drink it, I forget I have to pee. I go to the supermarket with paint on my face and in my hair. I tell my stories and other people’s and I am grateful to those who have shared with me bits and pieces of their lives.
Everything that is true is beautiful— I read this the other day. I’m grateful to all the artists whose work has touched me and who I have learned from. I am grateful that I have a way to express myself.
I’ve lived in the south of France and on a muddy river in Indonesia and in New York City. My childhood was mostly spent in the woods of New Hampshire, where I knew no artists and there was never enough sun. I always drew and made things, but it didn’t occur to me to go to art school.
I liked to write, too—even as a child I was curious to know people’s stories—so I became a newspaper reporter, and later, a writing teacher so I could help others tell their stories. I was drawing all along, though, in my reporter’s notebooks
and on the backs of student papers and finally the need to do this all the time took hold of me and it won’t let me go.