I heard last night that my friend, the artist Nan Hoover had died. I met her in the ’70s. Someone had given me her number in Amsterdam. I phoned, and she asked me to come and stay. Her apartment was white: white floor, white ceiling, white walls. She wore black; her dog was black, her cat was black-and-white.

Nan’s work was sublime. Moments frozen in light. She worked in video, performance, charcoal and installations. And photography, about which she wrote:

I am a painter
everything I do is seen
through the eyes of a

I only use different
brushes from time to time

Photo: Nan Hoover