Under the white eyelet drapery of my canopy bed, I sat, naming my dolls: Annabelle, Clara, Elizabeth. My dolls and I traveled to worlds within worlds that stretched far beyond our peaceful cul-de-sac in Norman, Oklahoma. Cabbage Patch Kids and China dolls: the first characters in my paintings.

Every night after dinner my dad sat down on his leather stool with his guitar and sang. “Earth Angel,” “Faded Love,” “Hey! Baby”…the soundtrack of my childhood.

I didn’t mean to become an artist.

Maybe it happened as we piled in the back of Dad’s truck. Toad Road, red dirt, and lots of cousins…wind in our hair. Perhaps it was the bike ­adventures to The Little Store for candy cigarettes on my pink bike. Plastic ­tassels on the handles.

Or was it the turtles in the backyard, rain flooding the grass…a cranky old dog with one eye? Perhaps it started at the Firehouse Art Center between wet clay and tempera paint.

Was it the fireflies at dusk, crawdads in the creek…or homemade snow ice cream? Lake breaks and snipe hunts, and I hid in the closet when the fireworks began.

Granny washed Ziploc bags and saved every shoebox, just in case…Her home a living testament to the old ways and the Cherokee people. She kept an orderly homestead all those years on the very land my family was allotted through the Dawes Act. A practical farmhouse with furniture made of her own pecan trees. I can still see her disappear down the stairs into her spider-filled cellar, shelves lined with ancient canned green beans and pickled okra, enough to hold you over through the next dust bowl. Thelma was a durable pioneer woman, tough as nails, who could wring a hen’s neck at sunrise and feed an army of farmers fried chicken by breakfast. I love you the most.

Maybe this is where my paintings began.

Sometimes my mind would wander so far away that I forgot where I was. Sometimes it still does.

Or did I start becoming an artist when…my mom fed me a steady stream of storybooks, some of them wearing that iconic round seal? Each book she gave me had a caringly inscribed message, written in her elegant 1950s longhand. The Rainbow Goblins, Mrs. Tiggy-winkle, and Just So Stories. Tasha Tudor, Beatrix Potter, and Helen Craig must have been my first teachers. She has always had fine taste.

Aunties, ever-present in my life, stole me away for secret sleepovers. Fierce in their loyalty to lift us to the highest peak. Pranksters, feminists, clannish, each one. Fed on the simple belief that when I did something, it mattered. A spark ignited.

How could I have known that I was painting all this time? Compositions disguised as adventures.

Then came my parents’ divorce, a move, new friends. A girl becomes a young woman. Painting at the Firehouse Art Center became teen pottery classes, photography, three-dimensional collage at Oklahoma Summer Art Institute.

Enter fast cars, cheap beer, and bad boys. Years marked by confusion and a blossoming sense of self. A creative girl looking to escape the prison of her preppy high school, with classmates whose idea of fun was hazing parties. A few too many brushes with fate, saved, and saved again from “adventures” that could have ended altogether differently. Young and naive, oblivious to my unknowing. A creative spark turned into a burning flame…so hot that I burned myself at times.

Oklahoma Summer Art Institute at sixteen became the College of Santa Fe at eighteen. Muggy nights gave way to cool mountain air. Asphalt roads became dirt.

Alfred Stieglitz, Dorothea Lange, Ansel Adams…I was going to photography school to study the work of these masters, but the camera lens began to feel limiting. Photos felt like lost and found art, as I discovered I could hold a paintbrush and shape a world all my own. The scent of oil paints and turpentine and creativity hung in the air. Art school kids, bohemians, visionaries. Classes in the college darkroom gave way to classes in the painting studio. I found that dance could be a healing balm. Never had I felt so free, so alive. Something was emerging.

Was that when it happened?

I did stay in Santa Fe…how could I not? I wound my way through that time after college, transforming pain into creativity. But when I picked up my paintbrush, my work felt hollow; the artist inside me was blocked from creating meaningful work. I couldn’t bridge the gap between the paintings in my head and the paintings on my ­canvas. Countless paintings started, only to be painted over or destroyed. I could have given up a thousand times. And frankly, I don’t even know how I didn’t.

Oh, those early days in New Mexico, how they transformed me. Paintbrush in hand. Piñon smoke in the air. Songs and prayers and sage bundles became smudge sticks. The fierce beauty of the high desert. A thousand stars overhead. The dirt! The grittiness of the land lived in my bones, and it still inspires me today. New Mexico is not for the faint of heart!

Rebecca near her home. Photo courtesy of Rebecca Lee Kunz.

I became a wife and a mother. I had spent the last decade finding my voice and developing my style, and it was time to start my own creative business. I wanted to stay home with my children. I’d call it the Tree of Life Studio.

As my personal time dwindled, I committed myself to one studio day a week. Every Sunday I would go to my worktable, pick out my favorite CDs, and close the door. I would not emerge until dinnertime. I pushed myself to work when I didn’t feel like working, through doubt and growing pains. After countless hours at my table, my work began to shift.

Old scars became my swords. Where would we be without all those uninvited challenges? I would not take away any of those experiences, rich garden scraps made into black gold, all working their way into the fabric of my paintings.

Of all these things, nothing shaped my work as much as becoming a mother. Something about the rawness of parenting gave me just the right recipe for growth. Maybe it’s the way children snatch away your freedom, just when you’re having fun. Nothing is your own anymore — not your body, not your sanity, not even that smoothie you thought you had carefully stashed away behind the dish rack where you were “washing dishes.” What better teachers than these creative little people?

Was I painting when…my toddler lay down in the middle of the grocery store aisle, kicking and screaming, “But I want that candy!”? I tried to appear calm while customers shot me dirty looks. Or that time when we screeched over to the side of the road and pulled out her training toilet…yes, she used it right there on the shoulder of the street. There are many ways to become an artist.

My children could be found playing naked in the forest more than they could be found dressed or behind a desk. The wind through the tall ponderosas, their lullaby. Their pure spirits taught me more than any classes in a schoolroom.

Maypole dances, circle time, and all my best conversations were held between kids on my lap and knitting needles. Fertile ground for creativity.

Every night after a long day running my art business, I’d crawl into bed with my kids and a stack of books, my favorite time of day. Poring over the stories of Elsa Beskow, Tomie dePaola. Little Bear, Strega Nona, The Tomten. I don’t know who enjoyed those hand-embroidered Salley Mavor images more, my children or me.

While I was becoming a mother, my art was beginning to shift. I started to practice my creativity by summoning imagination and communing with what I call The Creative Collective. Where I ask for guidance from the collective consciousness. This is where I began to draw tribal mythology and symbolism into my work. Deep in my studies, I came across the tale of the Cherokee Sky Vault, the Uktena, Selu — our Corn Mother. They are all my guides: archetypes who began to play active roles in my paintings. With life’s black gold as my fuel, I began experimenting with gouache and graphite over monotype prints, and I loved what was arising. The images in my head began to parallel the images on my canvas.

So, I’m not sure if I chose to become an artist. Maybe I just said yes when the path came before me. It swooped down like a thief and chose me. But what I do know is that creativity lives in all of us. It is as instinctual as drinking from the cold, clear well. We are all born into this world to weave baskets and sculpt vessels! It is a life-giving connecting force, and I believe it can save lives.

Along that winding path, I met a woman named Andrea Rogers, as she was signing books at Cherokee National Holiday. Magic was afoot! A serendipitous meeting, a stomp dance, an email exchanged. Several months later, I was asked to make the art for Chooch Helped. And I said yes.

I had never studied illustration. I did not know much about the world of bookmaking and publishing. But I had a passion to learn and a painterly hand. Joy Chu, my art director, became my first bookmaking teacher. She taught me about how each page-turn becomes a strategic decision to be made. I took a crash course in Book Art 101, and boy did I learn a lot. I learned to translate the style and techniques I’d developed over the years into the form of a picture-book page. Despite illustration being a new frontier, I realized I have been a picture-book artist all along.

I love the long format of a picture book…like a painting that has a beginning, middle, and end. If a child feels moved in some way by my art, then I have done my job. When children can see themselves in a character’s joy and pain, they get a sense of validation that they might not get anywhere else. ­Children need honest stories that can speak to their intelligence.

I hope that when a child holds a book, they feel the true “weight” of it, the care and attention that went into its creation. Books can be a refuge from a world that doesn’t place much value on things that take time. Books give children a chance to slow down.

My wish is that children might be inspired to write themselves into their own stories, to paint their way through their own artful lives. And when they do, the light of their soul shines onto the world, and their hidden secret becomes visible!

I am beyond grateful that children, books, and artfulness are the reason I am here with you tonight. I can’t think of many more important things to be gathered around.

First, I’d like to thank every member of the Caldecott committee for recognizing this book. I will never forget The Call that Sunday morning, as my ­children were by my side and listened in. The giggles in the background, the joy in your voices…the care and attention you gave to each book is extraordinary. You have forever changed my life.

I’d like to thank Andrea Rogers for writing this wonderful story and for championing my art. You have a very real gift. And if I hadn’t met you that time at the gallery, I wouldn’t be here today. We are forever bonded by this award.

I want to thank each of the hardworking folks at Levine Querido for not shying away from bold stories, and for your relentless commitment to the slow and fine craft of bookmaking. I want to thank my editor, Nick Thomas, especially for having faith in my art and taking a chance on a first-time book illustrator. You encouraged me to use my authentic voice and not to hold back. And thank you to founder Arthur Levine for expanding the definition of children’s books. Arthur believes “our mission is to glory in the multitude of sources where beauty lives.” Well, that says it all. A special thank you to art director Joy Chu for your patience and endless encouragement. I’d like to thank Charlotte Boudreau for shepherding me through the beginning of my illustration career, and to Kelly Pelsue, my agent, for being the positive and encouraging light that you are!

Thank you, Mom, for encouraging me to pursue my passions, despite the impractical path it sometimes took. You never doubted my intuition. You are an artist in your own right, from your floral arrangements to your handmade valentines. Thank you to my stepfather, Richard, for your love and for being a wonderful grandfather to my children. Thank you, Dad, for that sparkle in your eye, for always being in some state of daydreaming and creating. I must have gotten that from you. Thank you for teaching me to be bold and to take chances. Thank you to my dad’s wife, Carol, for taking such good care of my dad.

Thank you to my husband, Nick, who is the most caring and kind person I know. I couldn’t have asked for a more patient father to my children. You have always supported my career. Thank you for picking up the pieces when I was up working late hours and for being our head chef! Family has always come first. Thank you to my three daughters, Sofia, Olivia, and Paloma: my everything, my inspiration. Thank you to my sister Jen for being my other half, the more sensible half (except for that tattoo on your right shoulder or that college boyfriend; okay — so not always sensible!). You are a force. Thank you to my sister Valerie for your enthusiasm and love, always.

Thank you to my other five moms, my aunts, The ChaChas: Debby, Terri, Lynne, Billie, and Julie, who are the most outrageously fun people I know, my personal cheerleaders, my heroes. If every girl could have such a strong foundation of women leading them, the world would be a different place. Thank you for keeping our family homestead alive and thriving. Thanks to Uncle Larry for keeping it real. I can always count on you!

Thanks to my grandparents and ancestors for leading the way: Thelma, Everett, Tess, Bill, Bill, Ruth, and Laverne. To all of my cousins for your love and commitment to keeping our family close. Thanks to Shannon and Heather, my forever besties. To every art teacher who has guided me and to every friend in my community who has made me feel at home in myself. Thank you to Elise Gent and Rujeko ­Dumbutshena for showing me the joy of dance. To my Santa Fe family for being the creative and inclusive community that you are. Thank you to Robyn, Harper, Leah, Emily, Lisa, Kyce, Erin, and Sarah for your sisterhood. Thank you to The Four Oaks, my sisters in the beauty way, for your unwavering devotion to songs and prayers around our cauldron, our Mystery School. Thank you to Rick, Judy, Kristin, Dan, James, and Kaela, for welcoming me into your family like I was your own. Thank you to the citizens of the Cherokee Nation, who have endured every effort to extinguish us. I’m humbled to represent my people.

Congratulations to all the other ALA award winners for your outstanding achievements. A huge congratulations to the Caldecott Honorees: Gracey Zhang, Yuko Shimizu, C. G. ­Esperanza, and Cherry Mo. I am humbled to be among such fine artists. There were so many other Caldecott-worthy books in 2024. What a challenging job the ­committee must have had!

And, finally, thank you to the ALA for your steadfast leadership and commitment to books, authors, and ­librarians. Thank you for this award! I stand beside the ALA and IMLS and support you in this very difficult time. Not only are libraries community gathering places, but they provide educational services and support cultural preservation, especially to marginalized and tribal communities. Librarians are a lifeline, now more than ever.

I do believe I have been preparing for this moment. And I am ever grateful to have been initiated into this wonderful world of picture books. I am indeed enchanted!

Rebecca Lee Kunz is the winner of the 2025 Caldecott Medal for Chooch Helped, written by Andrea L. Rogers, published by Arthur A. Levine, an imprint of Levine Querido. Her acceptance speech was delivered at the annual conference of the American Library Association in Philadelphia on June 29, 2025. From the July/August 2025 issue of The Horn Book Magazine: Special Issue: ALA Awards. For more speeches, profiles, and articles, click the tag ALA 2025.

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