Fresh and Direct, Without Guile or Deception

the heart of our mattering

Photograph of a page from Ann Wyeth McCoy: A View of Her Own

A book arrives in the mail, a gift from a generous friend. A rare book of watercolors born of a daughter’s love. A limited-run production. Vintage.

“This is a book of my mother’s life through her watercolors, which are fresh and direct, without guile or deception,” writes Anna B. McCoy in the Foreword to Ann Wyeth McCoy: A View of Her Own. “She could be called ‘unschooled’ except for the constant input and support from her father, brother, sisters, and husband. The reason behind painting must be truthful, as anything in life must be moved by honesty within. Ann Wyeth McCoy has that integrity as shown by these simple yet complex watercolors.”

My mother had integrity, her daughter wrote. Could there be any more honoring words? Could there be a higher achievement, or aspiration?

Ann McCoy was the daughter of the famed illustrator N.C. Wyeth, the sister of the brilliant painter Andrew Wyeth, and the sister, too, of Henriette Wyeth, a woman who plays a central role in my memoir-in-essays Wife | Daughter | Self and who stars, as her child self, in my picture book And I Paint It: Henriette Wyeth’s World. (Two other siblings completed the family—the painter Carolyn and the inventor/engineer Nathaniel.) Ann was musical. She married a painter. She raised her children. And because she loved to paint—for no other reason—she painted. From Victoria Manning gallery director of SomervilleManning Gallery, where some of Ann’s watercolors now live:

Ann paints watercolors for personal enjoyment and satisfaction. Windows and doors, opening from inside to out, bedroom to hall, parlor to stairs, around corners or across a room through another window are glimpses of her home, and the objects in it, the private universe that she loves. Like the subjects of many of her paintings, they are open windows to her heart.

I was spellbound as I turned the pages of this book—swept into a world of good. Lilac bushes. Goldenrod. A house at night. A door opening to the empty studio, where Ann’s husband, now gone, no longer works. I was deeply moved by the daughter who loved her mother with such gentle force that, in the final years of Ann McCoy’s life, they shared this project, this gathering of a life’s work, this desire to put all these paintings into one place.

Books bind. This book binds.

It is only in the final moments of this 80-page book that it becomes clear, in an epilogue, that Ann McCoy did not live to hold this book in her hands. A single paragraph tells this story, a passage that needs not one more line or word to be deeply felt. I share it with you in this November month, as families begin to gather, as memories are made, as the idea and ideal of integrity seems, to me, to be paramount.

To live like this. To love like this. To be remembered like this. Isn’t this the heart of our mattering?

This book was near completion when Ann Wyeth McCoy was very much alive. She died as she lived, with conviction, determination, and clarity. Not one minute of her life was wasted. The day she died she stopped by my house early in the morning on her way to an appointment. I was working on the last-minute changes, which we discussed, until she looked at her watch and exclaimed, “I’m off, I don’t want to be late.” Two hours later she succumbed to a massive heart attack, leaving us all for a new place in our hearts and imaginations.

With thanks to Cynthia Reeves, my generous friend, who knew.

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Join me for a CraftTalk about finding and writing joy this November 12th. Sign up here. Read my thoughts about joy in this Brevity essay, here.

I have written numerous books on the art of writing and of living a literary life. All can be found here.

My handmade journals, booklets, cards, and paper art are offered here, at the Bind Arts Etsy shop.