Mary Lee Hu

There’s something about Marys (in Ohio).

Maybe it’s just coincidence, but I like to think it’s something in the rustbelt air — all that history of forging, bending, rebuilding — that keeps calling out to Marys to pick up metal and make it tender.

There’s Mary Ann Scherr, born in Akron, who turned jewelry into tools of care, designing beautiful trach necklaces and heart monitors that helped people feel seen, not just treated.

There’s Mary Ellen McDermott, who lived and taught in Akron, Peninsula, and Cleveland, painting copper with molten glass. Her enamel work shimmers like tiny stained glass windows you can hold in your hand.

And then there’s Mary Lee Hu, from Lakewood, who wove gold so fine it nearly breathed. She was born by Lake Erie in 1943 and somehow carried the lake’s rippling patience with her. Over decades, she twisted tiny loops of wire into fabric-like sculptures that drape across the body. It’s a choreography of hands, breath, and steady attention that feels so close to how many of us soothe ourselves — through slow, tactile making.

There’s no neat story of depression or illness to pin to Mary Lee Hu the way we might with an Agnes Martin or a Frida Kahlo. But you can feel the same meditative pull in her process: the tiny, deliberate gestures that take chaos and turn it into something intricate, gentle, and strong.

I love the grace of that. The idea that through repetition — whether carving cuttlebone or looping gold wire — we can quiet our own storms, if only for a little while.

If you’ve got a favorite artist whose hands worked like this — slowly, patiently, turning mess into meaning — I’d love to hear.