Work made by artist-friends, photos of loved ones, piles of the books she voraciously consumed, and portraits of her pets fill the house, too. In addition to her human children and Jake, the crow, Wilson also mothered Autumn Raindrop, the rabbit, and Sugar Shortears, the guinea pig. Both were castoff pets from a young neighbor, and they “had the the run of the house,” remembers Jenny, as we pass a painting of Autumn.
Wilson’s work—and her presence—are everywhere. Even the yard is covered in her interventions. Gaps in the wooden fence are stacked with stones and gridded boxes; divets in the brick patio are filled with a pattern of white ping-pong balls. As Davis remarked, the whole home still feels like one of her artworks: arranged just so, full of unpredictable, weighty, and wonderful combinations. This is true of her studio, too, where rows of her tools (little saws, cans of paint) and boxes of her materials (bouncy balls, letterpress blocks, keys, corks, hair baubles, crayons of every color) are organized neatly, lovingly.
Though Wilson mostly stopped working by 2012, when her mobility became restricted, one construction remains propped on a work table, as if she had just paused in the process of making it. The tall, segmented box is filled with little stacks of lead and wood, each marked with her fingerprints and arranged in geometric compositions.
Wilson didn’t like to talk about her creative process, maintaining that each construction came directly from her subconscious. “I never set out to say something with a particular piece, I wouldn’t know how,” she once told Gómez. “I just take things I’m intrigued by; nothing is planned.”