One of my fondest childhood memories is when I’d visit my grandmother and sneak off to her painting studio.

In her generously-sized sunroom with natural light pouring in from wall-to-wall windows, I’d study all her finished paintings leaning against walls, then move to the work in progress resting on her easel. The room had the aroma of turpentine from soaking the oil paint off her brushes. To me, it was the smell of creativity, and to this day I associate that smell with my grandmother’s studio. ×

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