Something fluttered through my head a few minutes ago; a faint memory of standing outside the doors of the art department at Auburn University, talking to a visiting artist named Mildred Thompson. She had just given a talk in the art history auditorium and had stepped outside, maybe for a cigarette, I can’t remember. If she had, I might have asked if I could have one so we could smoke together, which would have made me feel great at the time. She had big hair, “important hair” like a Don DeLillo character. She was warm and funny. I remember asking her how she got over everything, how she got beyond being angry every day of her life. I can’t remember what she said, but it put me at ease. She had the grace of a woman who had made smart choices and wonderful mistakes. She was solid and whimsical, like her paintings; gigantic, thick abstracts of charm and goo. Talking to her made me see how I could one day be old and happy.

So I googled her today and found out that she died on September 1, 2003. She was 68.

I’m grateful that I met her, that someone at my school had the presence of mind to invite her to show her work. And I’m reminded of how few artists we get a chance to meet, and how few of us get a chance to be artists ourselves. We aspire to being known, to getting more hits, followers and “friends.” We want to have the pithiest quip about the latest happening and tweet it before anyone else. We want to be above, over and beyond feeling anything about anything. We want to stop time by moving faster than it.

Mildred was cool. She made things that took time, not the least of which was a life worth knowing something about. I still haven’t figured out how to stop being angry, how to be less self-obsessed, or how to stop wanting things that aren’t worth having. But I know I should know better. And I thank her for that.

Also, if one of Mildred’s paintings fell on Megan Fox it would flatten her. That’s as it should be.