|INTRODUCTION  |PLAY DVD  |IMAGES  |POEMS  |BOOKS  |CONTACT ME                |OTHER WORKS  |NEWS  |ORDER                       It has been said that we are most satisfied with our lives in relation to our youthful dreams. As a child of the 40’s, when asked what I wanted to “…be when you grow up?” I would answer, “an artist”, which was met with amusement and faint indulgence. There were no woman artists in that community of stay-at-home moms, secretaries, schoolteachers. Better the model of my “mad” uncle, painter and un-indicted forger of Frans Hals, who convinced a major New York gallery he had an original but, wisely, did not offer it for sale. His studio was fragrant with pigments and littered with art books. I drew through local museum summer schools, Cooper Union (where abstraction was then the law and I was lawless), the Art Student’s League as Monitor for Edwin Dickinson and in sketchbooks in New York, Spain, Morocco and Italy. To communicate the surreal, distorted images of imagination one must draw convincingly. All the while I wrote. I had, in struggling to validate my artistic life in one form, never considered another. So that when, years later, finding some notes, I asked my husband, Anson, to put them into his computer and he suggested I publish, a new and exciting medium opened to me. During the “difficult years” poetry became dominant: one can write in bed or at a bedside. One can’t pull etchings there. Surviving, I’ve gone back to the studio, on press. Slowly, so slowly, I have bumbled into a reality no child could project but recognizable from early visions.