I first read about Margaux's show in a novel, a week before its opening in real life. I visited Mulherin + Pollard to view "I Could See Everything," and after a few free glasses of pinot grigio, left a note on Margaux's artist book. I scribbled, "Your palette, deeply murk mixing with the paint's sheen, shines like the shit of the world." Like her work, Marguax is unassuming, yet exacting in how she takes to the world. She's a painter’s painter, a rare breed it seems, someone who makes of their work the task of containing totality within a square frame and a hue of colors.