I met an artist on Sunday named August Wren whose paintings I adored from the moment I saw them spread out on the floor of Dixon Place before installation on the wall for an event that morning in which I sing as part of a small choir. Every day for the past two years, she has created a painting in a small sketchbook, allotting herself no more than 30 minutes, and never returning to the piece thereafter. Not every day yields something good, she said. I thought, "I should do something like that" and then thought, "Oh. Wait. 100 Words."