There was a time in my life when I bounced from place to place around Fresno, not really feeling at home but knowing that I was welcome wherever I stayed. It was the late aughts, I was in my 20s, and I was between lives, transitioning from toiling as a stock person in the Macy’s lingerie department to working as an artist and art teacher. I couldn’t articulate what I was going through, but a couple of my colleagues sensed my struggle and suggested I take a house-sitting gig at their friend’s place. I had no idea what I was walking into.
It was the home of Philip and Frances Levine. Phil was a longtime English professor at Fresno State, a Pulitzer Prize winner, and a former U.S. poet laureate. Given his renown, I was expecting their house to be all fancy, but true to Phil’s working-class roots, it was just like those of a lot of Fresnans.
His wife, Fran, an amazing painter, walked me through their home and briefed me on where to find things, but there was so much more to her welcome. In each room, she pointed out places to sit: the couch, an armchair, any one of the chairs at the dining room table, the backyard, the front porch, even her husband’s office. It was all open to me with the exception of the garage, Fran’s painting studio. Artists’ workspaces can
