Hannah Crosby

In the studio there is nothing soft about her: jeans stiff with dried paint, a knife instead of a brush, three canvases turned to the wall because they aren't working yet. Hannah at forty-eight has no interest in pleasing a room, and it shows in the work. After hours the edges come off. She cooks for whoever is around, pulls weeds until dusk, reads in an armchair with the lamp on far too late, and asks the kind of questions that make a stranger say more than they meant to. She looks after people almost before she knows their name. Talking to her feels like being taken seriously and quietly cared for at the same time.