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On a country road not far from Santa Fe, a white BMW sedan came flying along. Not more than six inches above the steering wheel, the piercing face of one of the most remarkable heads of our time was fixed upon the road ahead. There was a glimpse of close‑cut gray hair, a strong jaw, cheeks the color of a McIntosh apple, a face for all weathers. Hardly had the vision passed than a friend said, "Who on earth was that? She looked like Beethoven's sister." "Not at all," I replied. "That is Agnes Martin, the painter." "Agnes Martin?" he said. "The celebrated recluse? The painter of abstract altarpieces? The one who breathes air too fine and too thin for the rest of us? Didn't you see those formidable forearms? This had to be someone else."