Painting portraits of writers has been less of a chore than I thought it might be. I didn't like the idea of reinterpreting photographs that other people, who were actually fortunate enough to be in the same room with these greats, had taken. I thought it might be nothing more than mindless documentation. I should have known better. While spending hours upon days brushing in these faces, I've been graced with the translation of their words through the lines of their skin; I can see Humboldt in Saul Bellow's eyes, the little string bean tucked into Sylvia Plath's chest, Mrs. Rosewater in Vonnegut's expression, and I can guess who is afraid of Virginia Woolf. Some have found it reassuring that Gustave Flaubert and Lillian Hellman are so awkward and approachable in appearance, but to me the comfort comes in recognizing their words in every arc and shadow of their bodies.