He paints with words.

I paint with words.

I wondered if this wasn't drawing, but no – I certainly paint. Because these words have color, depth, and softness… They're almost virtual, though that word doesn't quite fit my paintings… No, not virtual, just deep, but without a void you could drown in… they're more like an egg, like the yolk within an egg – surrounded by a safe, soft white and a delicate shell that gives it form; a shell you can't hurt yourself on or stray beyond the orbit of the content. An unbroken shell.

These paintings are like the basket in which my grandmother brings meticulously arranged eggs from the neighbor – meticulously selected and considered words. Sometimes a little larger, sometimes smaller, sometimes even shapeless, because the basket has plenty of room and can accommodate different, even more fitting, varied ones, and they look better and invite differently curious glances – eyes, sometimes ears…

My grandmother's basket was always "soft," though not literally. Looking at it, you felt warmth: a light color and a structure full of order and sensitivity. Sometimes cotton canvas or a colorful cloth with a contrasting check pattern peeked out. Sometimes you could spot a piece of yarn by the handle, perhaps threads from darning socks yesterday…

It was my grandmother's basket. There was no other like it, though my grandmother had many, and each one looked the same, yet so different.

And my grandmother was the same. Sometimes more tired, sometimes with a drawn face

and a translucent gaze, but she was my grandmother – forever one, always the same…

My grandmother's basket stood on the table, covered with a white cloth. Because words, like eggs, must be protected.

Not everyone could see under the cloth. Not everyone knew what the basket held. Not everyone saw the careful arrangement of the eggs. But I knew. My grandmother showed me and explained – every time in the same way – with calm, patience, from the beginning. I knew what they meant

and why they were there, and why they were there, and why they were there, and why this order, this arrangement, this color.

My grandmother told me. She didn't tell everyone. Not everyone was her grandchild, and not everyone could know. I was the only one, like my grandmother and like that basket on the kitchen table.

And those words—different ones every day—painting at least one picture—full of warmth and love, teaching a little child life in the language of grandmother's heart.