I’ve taken up painting. It’s therapy on the weekends. Lately I’ve found I need it after work, too.

I love a white canvas begging to be slathered with color. Fear used to paralyze me. Not anymore. It’s just paint. If I don’t like it, I change it. I control my universe.

What I find most fun is faces. They just appear. My sister says I paint our grandmother over and over again. Okay. Maybe. But I don’t recall any emotional turmoil with her growing up, so why would I be resurrecting her on my canvases? I think my sister is projecting her own drama.

I comb the internet for paintings that arrest me and then study them. The ones that immediately capture my attention are the modern abstracts, the ones that look like ink splats on a page. I’m drawn to furious, powerful colors. Robert Motherwell and sculptor Louise Nevelton fascinate me. Their work is enormous and commands an entire room or a street. Next time I’m in New York I want to hunt for their work wherever it leads me.

Calvin says, “Hey, I could do that. On my next walk, watch and see.”