Dirty Linen Night

Lucky Rose Gallery

I cannot remember a time when making art wasn’t the center of who I am and not just what I do. It's been my mirror, my teacher, my solace. It's how I let you see me.

My early work in sculpture, 25 years ago, appears raw and intense, angry, sad -- a longing in them difficult for me to see when I look at them now. The eyes are closed, the mouth open, the gesture of their hands, the tilt of the head and rigid shoulders, the arms reaching out and up and feet set wide apart all convey an anguish. I didn't think about what I was doing. I didn't think about what the pieces were saying. I just kept moving my hands. It was fear, loneliness and grief that pushed me to that unconscious place, but it liberated me.

And it healed me.


Seven years past great loss…  I'm completing a piece, one I fought with for weeks, now changed, now yes, right. It feels right. The mirror reflects more softly. The eyes are open, the head turned ever so slightly, the mouth relaxed, the shoulders sloped downward, the arms at the hips, the hands quiet. So subtle are the changes I didn't realize the when or how, which is how it should be. Don't think about it, just move your hands. It was stillness, simplicity and time that pushed me to that unconscious place, and it liberated me.

Here, now, another beginning. My hands work without thought, weaving my work together, a familiar pattern I love. The eyes?