A School of Fish, A Room of Makers

I took my students to the Sam Maloof Foundation today, and I am still sitting with everything the visit stirred up.

There was a sense of pride as I watched my students engage so fully. They dove into using technology to make stamps—curious, open, unafraid to try. That willingness to explore, to not overthink, feels like such an important part of being an artist.

At the same time, I found myself thinking about Alfreda Maloof. I learned that she had dreams of becoming a ceramicist and an artist, yet she set those aspirations aside to help build what would become the Maloof Foundation. The foundation still stands today, continuing to support artists and craftsmanship. Her choice made something lasting possible. It also carries a quiet weight. I couldn’t help but wonder what her own artistic path might have looked like if she had pursued it.

Sam Maloof’s story felt different but equally moving. He was self-taught. He experimented, tinkered with tools, and built his first chair through persistence and curiosity. There is something deeply encouraging in that—this idea that devotion to a craft does not always begin with formal training, but with attention, patience, and a willingness to begin.

It made me reflect on my own relationship to craft. If I were to devote myself fully to one, it might be cookie-making. I recently got a cookbook called 100 Cookies, and instead of returning to the same reliable recipes, I want to try them all. One by one. It feels like a small but meaningful commitment to exploration. I imagine my family, my church community, my coworkers, and even my swim team becoming part of this journey—each batch a new experiment to share.

What stayed with me most, though, was my students.

One of my students reads Braille. Another brought her husband, who has dementia.

And still, they showed up ready to learn, to participate, to be part of the experience. It reminded me that learning is not limited by circumstance. There is a kind of determination and openness in the classroom that continues to humble me.

My favorite artwork from the visit was an outdoor installation of a school of fish. Each fish was distinct, yet together they formed a collective movement. Because the piece is outside, it changes with the light, the weather, and the seasons. It never looks exactly the same twice. There was something poetic about that—individuality within community, always shifting, always alive.

I keep thinking it would make a meaningful class project. Something collaborative, where each student contributes a piece of themselves and, together, it becomes something larger.

Today felt like a reminder of many things: the importance of curiosity, the complexity of sacrifice, the courage it takes to begin, and the quiet strength of showing up to learn.