Ann Marshall grew up in Atlanta, Georgia, and earned her BFA from the School of Visual Arts in New York City. She has worked in a gallery, traveled nationally and internationally as an ethnographer and consumer anthropologist, and now works commercially as a fine artist, graphic facilitator, scribe, and illustrator.


My quarantine was a time of abandonment, isolation, and repeated loss. Drawing became a tool to create discipline and carve purpose out of the fog. Sometimes it was therapy, sometimes a nervous tick, and sometimes it was just something to fill the hours that bled into each other without distinction. I drew the faces that I no longer saw, I drew emotions, and I drew people that I would rather be. I drew the grandmothers that I didn’t have but that I wished would bring me cookies and warm tea and tell me everything would be ok. I drew people I had been. I drew the people I would one day become. I drew escapism. I drew mental prisons. Some drawings were good, some were bad, but whatever the day’s output, I would tell myself it didn’t matter too much as I would make another one tomorrow. This speed of production was freeing as no one piece became precious. Rather, it was a moment, a combination of both how I felt and the vicissitudes of craft (I would love to be in complete control, but I am not). To draw was my job and purpose, at least for this period.