Beth Vendryes Williams grew up on Long Island’s North Shore, New York, the oldest in a bustling family of seven children. With six younger siblings filling the house with constant chatter and motion, she carved out quiet corners wherever she could. Art became her way of creating stillness. A pencil and paper, a paintbrush, or even a notebook offered the pause she needed. When the house felt too loud, she often slipped into books, wandered outside under the trees, or sketched what caught her eye. Those small escapes added up. Drawing and painting stopped being a pastime and became a rhythm in her daily life. From early on, Williams wasn’t chasing recognition. She was building a refuge. What began as a child’s sanctuary grew into a practice that continues to guide her—rooted in observation, reflection, and above all, an unshakable fascination with light.
Through the Morning Light
Beth Vendryes Williams describes her art in simple terms: “I love painting the light so it can be seen in between the foliage.” That clarity runs through all of her work. She doesn’t overcomplicate what pulls her in. It’s light—specifically, the way it passes through branches, leaves, or the edge of a backyard fence. She isn’t chasing grand landscapes or monumental views. She’s looking at what’s right in front of her, at home, and asking how to keep that fleeting brightness alive on paper.
Her journal is central to this practice. She calls it her portable studio, a place where sketches and notes share space with her observations. A page may hold a quick pencil outline of how sunlight breaks through morning trees, alongside words describing how it felt in that moment. This habit ties her art to daily life. Instead of separating writing from drawing, she lets both feed each other. The journal isn’t just preparation for larger works—it’s art in itself.
Williams pays close attention to her backyard, describing one corner as “magical.” It isn’t magic in the sense of fantasy. It’s the ordinary made extraordinary through care and presence. By returning to the same space again and again, she builds a relationship with it. Morning after morning, she notices the changes: the way shadows stretch differently depending on the season, or how certain leaves catch light in ways they didn’t the week before. Painting becomes a way of remembering those shifts.
Memory is a strong current in her process. She writes about wanting to “remember a moment in time,” and painting allows her to do just that. The work doesn’t just capture the look of light but the feeling of standing there, of pausing to see it fully. This approach keeps her paintings grounded in lived experience. They are less about perfect representation and more about the emotional echo of a moment.
What stands out in her practice is patience. Williams doesn’t rush through paintings, nor does she chase novelty for its own sake. She keeps the habit of observing, sketching, writing, and returning. In this way, her art mirrors the natural cycles she studies. Light always shifts, but it also returns. The repetition in her practice mirrors the repetition in nature.
Another thread running through her work is her insistence on following what “stirs [her] heart and soul.” This choice of words is telling. For Williams, art is not a detached exercise. It’s a deeply personal pursuit, where emotion, memory, and observation braid together. This makes her paintings less about external approval and more about internal connection.
Her paintings, often rooted in foliage and light, remind us of how easily small details can be overlooked. Many of us pass through our backyards or neighborhoods without pausing. Williams chooses to pause. She notices the glint of light through branches, the play of shadow across grass, and she translates that into color and form. By doing so, she asks others to notice too.
There’s humility in this practice. Rather than setting out to create grand statements, she looks for resonance in the everyday. A journal, a corner of a yard, a sliver of light—these are her materials. Through them, she builds paintings that are at once simple and layered.
In the end, her work can be seen as an act of attention. By painting the light as it filters through leaves, she invites others to slow down and see what she sees. The paintings carry the weight of memory, but they also hold a kind of openness. They aren’t locked to one place or time. Anyone who has stood in a yard on a quiet morning, watching light shift between branches, will recognize something in them.
For Beth Vendryes Williams, art remains what it was in her childhood: a space apart, a way to turn down the volume of the world and focus on what matters. Light, movement, memory—small details that, once seen, are impossible to forget.
