06.|. Discovering New York City

I have an early and highly visual memory of staying with my grandmother in Forest Hills, where she lived in a great big white brick building called the Diplomat.  At night when it was dark for sleep, I would watch the lines of light from the window blinds move across the ceiling to the side wall as the trajectory of car lights would change as they drove by.  I wanted to know where they were all going.

This was the moment I discovered my love for this place where people seemed to have far more interesting things to do than go to bed.  I would eventually return to NYC and make it my lifelong home.

05.|. Dallas

Dallas Texas in 1967 was a world away from NYC.  Still broken from Kennedy’s assassination, and repairing from years of Civil Rights protests and change, all in process, but not there yet.

My family decided to move us there in late 1966 when my father made a job change from Chrysler to working for an auto auction in Dallas.  He was a finance man with a background in the automotive industry, so in the 1960s when everything was car based, it probably seemed to be a good idea.  Of course there was always the other story that led to the move….  The story I heard in whispers many years later, that moving there was a way to insure that my father’s transgressions with a certain woman would definitely end by leaving New York altogether.

Whatever the reason,  I was taken out of 1st grade not long after the holidays, a move that I did not appreciate as it meant giving up my role as the Dormouse in Alice in Wonderland.  However, leave we did, which I was vehemently opposed to.  [I was a strange little thing - I remember one day as I was walking through the school halls repeating the word “Kitchen” over and over and realizing that if you say something enough times it becomes a meaningless group of random sounds.  Something every 6 year old spends hours considering.]

I remember on arrival that we did not move into the house that my parents had found for us, but into what was then called Garden Apartments as our home was not ready yet for it’s new tenants.  It was a group of dark brown two story buildings, all surrounding a central pool which was a huge source of fun in this new warmer climate.  I seem to remember we lived in the lower unit, with neighbors living above us who were from England.  They had two sons who were the same age as my brother and myself.  We would explore the wooded area behind our homes, gated off but with enough holes in the fencing for our tiny bodies to crawl through and discover a cowboy graveyard hidden amongst the trees and brambles.  Each of the grave said something different about who was buried there, and even though I can’t remember what was said, it all read like a story just waited to be enacted by us. 

We would all walk together to school every day, through a dry patch behind the houses and over a road where the boys were given strict orders to hold my hand on crossing.  This must have been a horrifying proposal.  One day on the way to school we found a scorpion, and in usual childlike fashion, all stooped down to look at it, with no fear of the possible and impending death that crawled beneath our feet.

School was hard.  It was Spring of 1967, and our little housing units were in a school district that was all black.  I was the only white girl in the entire school.  There was one little girl who wore the cutest pigtails with perfect bows at the end of each one, and always wore a perfectly immaculate outfit.  She was very popular and sat in the front row as she always had the answers to any question the teacher asked.  I wanted terribly to be friends with her.   

On my first day I joined all the other kids at recess, and said hello to the cute pigtail girl.  She turned her heel on me and went off to her friends.  I tried again the next day.  And the next.  After that I knew there was no use to it, and spent every day at recess standing in the corner of the school yard watching everybody else play. The teacher would sometimes ask me why I didn’t play with the other children, and even at that young age I thought she was shockingly naive.

When we moved back to New York a year and 1/2 later, my first friend in 3rd grade was the only African American girl in the class.  In looking back, it makes perfect sense.  But that is another story…

By the time 1st grade had ended, we moved into our new home at 4341 Livingston Ave.  It was in a nice neighborhood, and a block from my new school, Bradfield.  Almost every house on the block was filled with kids… all our age, and fascinated by their new metropolitan neighbors.  Our home was a beautiful Tudor looking home with an extra room connected to the garage which was once the home of a maid, as all the houses on our block once housed one.  It was unused for years and dilapidated, once more off limits to us kids, and once again, a source of amazing stories yet to be invented.

My father had put together a tower for us, a large metal structure that had lots of bars for swinging from and a central pole for sliding down.  My brother and I created a club called the F45 Soda Pop Club [unsure of what the actual numeral was] which every kid in the neighborhood joined, and we spent our summer in blissful play mode.  Behind each house was an alley way once used by garbage trucks, but now abandoned but used by us as a way to travel between friends houses, unseen by the eyes of the adults.  Each kid had something different to offer - one friend was terribly spoiled and had a playroom connected to her bedroom that was filled with every game and toy you could imagine. Another friend’s parents had built a home that looked like a miniature white columned mansion, and had a pool in the backyard that seemed to be open to our use whenever visiting.  I remember seeing his father in the family room next to the pool drinking copious amounts of brown drinks from the wet bar.  Innocence truly is bliss.

2nd grade was a dream.  All the girls wore white gogo boots with white fishnet stockings, emulating the Dallas Cowgirl cheerleaders. My brother joined the junior Dallas Cowboys, a pee wee football club for the 4th graders.  Even though I was forbidden from wearing the boots, I loved seeing my friend Sherilyn sporting them, as just standing next to her made me cool.  I flourished during my time there, until one day my mother went to the hospital and came home with a little sister for me.  She moved into my room which was fine with me, as it was on the corner back of the house and had 8 windows and my own doorway to the backyard.  Just outside was a garden alongside the house that I planted with wild strawberries.  I was happy to share them, though this new little bundle was no where ready to enjoy the fruit of my labors.

My mother hired a nurse for her and each day I would accompany the nurse as she took out my sister for a walk in the huge English carriage my mother had purchased for that purpose.  She was a gentle girl, who seemed happy to Bring me along for the walks.  We would stop in the little village nearby and I would get a cherry slurpee at the 7/11, and sometimes we would stop in the supermarket to pick up a few items for my mother.  There was a little movie theater there, and next door there was a ballet studio.  I begged to take ballet lessons.  Not once, or twice, but what must have been an annoying number of times, as my mother grew very weary of the constant request.  But on each walk as we passed the dance studio, I was reminded to ask once again when we returned home.  It was to no avail, or at least at that time.

There was however a certain solace in the cherry slushee from the 7/11 on the corner that was the only thing that would delay the endless queries.

The nurse would take lunch every day with her boyfriend who would park on the street out in front of the house with sandwiches for them. I would watch them sometimes from the living room window, talking and laughing and sometimes stealing a kiss.  I never saw her laugh during our walks, and wondered why they never had lunch in our generously sized kitchen, or the dining room next to it.  Another lesson in race relations.  I asked my mother one day and she told me it was her choice.

It was not long afterwards that it was announced to us that we would be returning to New York.  The story we were told was that my mother was tired of being called a Yankee.  The other story, was that my father was having an affair with someone else, and I suppose if this was going to be his behavior moving forward, my mother decided to be home near friends and family..  In a way, both stories were correct.  Only one was told.  

04.|. FARM

When I was little, most summers my parents would pack up the car for the long drive to Uncle George’s farm. Hours would pass counting out of town license plates and making up stories from the view out the back window of our station wagon until finally arriving at Brier Hill; somewhere between Montreal and Toronto on the USA side of the border. Population 6, Uncle George, Auntie Gay, Aunt Frieda, the postman and a couple of the many farmhands. 

Once settled in, my parents would leave, abandoning myself and sometimes my older brother to fend for ourselves.  Our handler was Aunt Frieda whose handy pancake turner readied in her right hand for the inevitable trouble we might get into. Being typically an overly curious me, it was in continual use. 

The big house was a source of excellent play material as it had been built centuries earlier and therefore had small windows meant to hold in the winter heat and keep out any significant amount of light.  It was therefore most definitely haunted and full of divine family secrets worth investigating. Especially the attic which we were warned was completely off limits and bolted shut. Excellent fodder for assumptions of every kind. 

Late night sneaking around the house was out of the question as the floorboards would creak out warnings to Aunt Frieda that trouble was afoot. 

But most days began with the dawn warmth of Aunt Frieda up early to make homemade donuts and a feast of breakfast delights for 8am when the dairy farmhands would come in after the milking of the cows. Huge men.  8 or 10, sitting around the long table making short conversation about the days work between grumbled voices of pleasure and the nodding of heads in approval. Aunt Frieda could cook. But remained a spinster as her only marriage proposal was because of her culinary ability.  Or so the story goes.  

I frankly questioned that particular family fable, as she seemed to me to be a most frighteningly large women with a fierce sense of propriety who scared me to death.  But each day after that miraculous breakfast, I was sent off to the chicken coop to collect the eggs for the daily baking.  I would amble off inspecting the various activities around the farm as the lows of the the cows and the burring sound of tractors heading out to the fields seemed much more interesting than a visit to see a bunch of somewhat evil hens who were not at all willing to get off their nests to allow me the microsecond of time necessary to grab their precious progeny.  Sometimes I would stand there staring at them for a long, long time, hoping that with my mere presence I could move them away, and avoid the pecking of those sharpened beaks.  Sometimes I would talk to them, usually with a somewhat raised voice to convince them that I was larger and therefore a threat to their very livelihood.  Usually in the end, it would take way too long to collect up the eggs, and the classic question of “what took you so long!” was expected.

[shot from a crop duster, photographer unknown]

Another time I wandered off after my egg collecting adventure to see what was happening in the dairy barn, and noticed that the silo was empty.  The layer of hay of the base was exactly the same level of the barn floor, so I assumed I could walk across it to the other side of the cow stalls so I could talk to them and pet their noses.  Instead, as I stepped onto the seemingly solid floor of hay, my foot continued downward until I was standing knee-deep in water.  My red sneakers and socks, soaking wet, but even worse, I was now in a position to interrupt the baking in the kitchen. I already know that Aunt Frieda was going to pull out that pancake turner and I did not venture into the silo again.  Though I do remember wondering exactly what was so terrible about my mistake before considering that my handler had no children, and thus no barometer to know exactly when the pancake turner was to get used.  All infractions were possible bait.

Our farm life stories continued for several years, and eventually we started visiting Uncle Vincent and Aunt Scharlie’s farm so as not to leave them out of the summer visits. That was a much smaller farm as Vincent was getting on in years.  He has a dairy barn, one farm hand and a field of corn which I can remember running through over, and over again, searching for nothing in particular.  

I was 13 at the time and Uncle Vincent’s farm hand was not much older than me… 17 at most.  But with nobody else to speak to all summer long, he became my friend.  We would spend hours with me perched up on his tractor listening to Alice Cooper on his 8 track plugged into the battery, and naturally, I asked him to teach me how to drive.  And even though he never let me drive it alone or near my Aunt and Uncle who would have been most disappointed in him, it was a new freedom unimaginable.

The day my parents arrived to drive me back downstate was a sad day for me.  I had a feeling that my visits to the farm were at an end, and it turned out that I was right.

Sometime in the early 70s the big house burned to the ground. Somewhere in the ashes were the remains of the forbidden secrets held in that locked attic. It was the family’s uniforms from the civil war, the revolutionary war, the original paperwork of arrival to America of the Schermerhorns. My Dutch ancestry up in smoke. But in my mind, I still see the ghosts we imagined lived there, and realize we were right all along. 

 [continue]

03.|. start -02

Seriously, who grows up to say “I want to be a doorman at a famous nightclub and stay up all night.”  It isn’t exactly something you consider when you’re young.  It isn’t like being a fireman.  And frankly, it’s a bit of a deadend job.  It can only really lead to something else in the public eye, so if you are at all an introvert, this can be greatly problematic.

Let’s discuss this ‘introvert’ thing.  Yes, we function perfectly well in the public eye.  For a time.  Then we need to get away to recharge.  Alone somewhere, where there are no people at all.  It’s like charging up your iPhone.  Even with a full charge, sometimes we can be awkward with people.  Sometimes saying the wrong thing, or something that is seemingly insensitive, which is just our nerves at work, as trying to come up with something clever isn’t really natural.  So I became extremely good at foot in the mouth disease.  I lost friends over it.  It’s the old saying that honesty is NOT always the best policy.  In fact, it can get you in a LOT of trouble.

There are certain words in life that we take for granted; words we use every day without the slightest notion as to why.  Like beautiful.  Why do we think one thing is more beautiful than another?  There are plenty of logical responses… balance in the human face, color combinations, and what about beauty in nature?  Why do we look at an empty beach on a blue day and say, “it’s so beautiful”.  What in us makes us discern that this is any more beautiful than something else?  What makes us capable of having taste, and what purpose does it serve us?  Same thing with love.  But. We have been discussing love for millennia.  I can’t think of when anybody ever said that there was a biological reason for discerning beauty.  And why do we all think that different things are?  And what about scale?  Why do we think one thing is better than another based on size?  Again, logical reasons abound.  A smaller artichoke is better because of its taste.  A taller man is better for basketball because he is closer to the hoop.  A wider plank on the floor is better if you want it to look historical.  We measure things to exact size and dimensions, which all makes sense in a world where we are constantly making things fit.  But for some things, it is purely aesthetic.  Why do we do that?

I have always had trouble sleeping at night.  I wander helplessly around the house, or read a book, or check my email.  I used to smoke during those times, now I vape on my tiny Juul.  Much more convenient in bad weather and winter as sometimes I would wander outside, waking myself up even further.  When we lived at 45 Wall Street, there was so much security on the block that I could wander out front in my bathrobe at 3am, and be completely safe.  Never did wear my bathrobe outside however…

I always attributed my insomnia to these questions. And of course, the size of the universe.  I would literally make my head explode.  The only thing that worked was to think about what to wear the next day.  I would always finally fall asleep before I had finished my mental inventory, and usually when I woke up with little of the outfit I had planned remained in my memory.  And partly because I would wake up after 4 hours, fully awake, wondering if I should go outside for that cigarette.  After I started flying, the outfit planning became a moot point.  I lived in a uniform.  And my sleep patterns changed daily, as one day I might report to the airport at 4:30am, and the next day not until 11am, and work until midnight.  So eventually I started to wake up every 3 hours.  Then every 2.  My life span was being shortened each day.  And still, the endless questions would sit on the front of my brain each night, along with the replay of everything I’d ever said to anybody that I regretted. Each opportunity I passed up because of my stubbornness.  That whole story about having integrity in following your dream and knowing exactly who you are and what you want, only works in very, very rare instances.  For most, it is recognizing when something good is staring you in the face, and having the flexibility to know that it is a lot better than the plan you had created sometime in the cradle.  

Anyway, my life story rambles across the page like a frightened rat, seeking a place of shelter with moments of levity.  Life does not occur without that… now back to that universe issue… 

Of course none of this was evident in the 1980s.  I had all the same thoughts, but little time for them when every moment of my life was filled up with… me.  Photoshoots, art openings, parties, TV appearances, interviews, dinners, and everyone beautiful and/or so very famous.  Or infamous.  Back then it was difficult at times to tell which was which.  The winds changed so often.  But I was in my 15 minutes, which at the times seemed to go on for several years, until it didn’t.  My own choice.  I did my time as a Paris Hilton before Paris Hilton was Paris Hilton, and then ran off, desperately afraid of the term, “has been”.  And yet, I had perpetuated it based on that stubborn side of me that was determined to be an exhibiting artist.

I had a gallerist boyfriend at one point who told me that if you were a painter, you would just paint.  As if the sky would open up and bestow me with paint and canvases, food and money.  This did not happen.  And at the time that I was selling the most paintings, I was also one stop from complete poverty.  I had no credit cards or outstanding loans, but likewise, no emergency cash.  I was vulnerable.  It was at that moment that someone I was dating told me that maybe I should become a graphic designer.  Perfect alignment for when the internet was becoming a retail tool and everyone needed website designers.

I stopped painting.  I had lost my vision.  And lost my body of work in 9/11.  All the same time.  So for the first time in my life, I was actually earning. A good salary, with room to grow.  But I was also too old for my experience to make sense in this new world of online life.  The designers I managed at R/GA, the best digital design agency [now, in the world] in a word, hated me.  I got everything wrong.  For me, it was a wonderful year where the world seemed so fresh, the lounge music that was popular at the time was cool, the home and product design was forward thinking and fantastic.  It was the turn of the millennia.  But my happiness was short lived as I slowly discovered that even my personality of smart edges was no longer applicable.  And I was booted out of there so harshly that I wasn’t even allowed back in the building.  This was my first real experience with finding that I was not who I thought I was.  My first experience with realizing that I could be a real asshole.

[continue]

02.|.start - 01

I was born into the fantasy of the 1950s family.  A boy, a girl, a cat named Cleopatra.  Or maybe the cat came later… no one ever told me where she came from.  But in the early days we were city dwellers, my mother coming from Forest Hills and my father born in Oyster Bay and raised in Roslyn.  She told me several times that she married my father for his name, not realizing that she meant exactly what you think, and not that it was a pretty name as I thought in my childish mind.  It was in such a muddle of confusion that I was raised, never really knowing what things that were said meant, and never being told anything much about the past.

It was only my grandmother, Frances Schermerhorn who would entertain me with stories about her life when she was my age, so that I could imagine another time and place.  No one else would indulge my endless questions.  

I have always been fascinated by people’s stories, and the more detail the better.  However, very few are any good at telling them.  Frances was.  She would tell me about her days on the farm, what it was like for her and all her sisters to pile into a cart of hay pulled by a horse to go into town for a day or to Sunday church.  Of picking flowers in vast fields and strawberries for desserts.  Whenever we were visiting for the holidays, there would be homemade pies and a cake, and vegetables prepared so wonderfully that I would inhale them for dinner.  In the basement of their home, there would be shelves of jams and chutneys, and anything you could pickle.  Amongst them always were the crab apples she picked from her trees out back in the yard.  And down the hill from the house was a second lot of land that my grandfather had purchased for her to cultivate.  It was filled with rose bushes that my grandfather had planted for their anniversary one year.  Her years on the farm were evident in her beautiful gardens, all growing wild by the time I was alive, as my grandmother had gotten ill and spent most of her time in bed, or reclining on the red living room couch for most family events, Lawrence Welk and the King Family Singers holiday specials.

I would sit with her all day to watch her soap operas.  When I grew bored with television, there were always several Readers’ Digest in the bathroom to peruse, or the Sears Catalog which I would study in great depth when it was time to pick out our Christmas Gifts.

My first pair of black suede boots were from that Sears Catalog.  I felt very adult in them, and as close to the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders as I could possibly get.

There was a time around 1965 when for no reason that I could fathom, we actually moved to Dallas Texas.  I looked forward to the change, as change always meant that I could reinvent myself.  Even at the age of 5.  However, it meant leaving 1st grade in New York, and my role as the Dormouse in Alice in Wonderland, which I willed to my best friend Kathy.  We made our good byes, and oddly, my first lessons in life really didn’t begin until we moved there.

Dallas was a wounded soul in the 60s.  President Kennedy had been shot there, followed by the Civil Rights riots, and of course a massive amount of it’s citizens had gone off to fight in Vietnam, and not by choice.  It seemed to be both broken and growing simultaneously, tall and short, rich and poor, truth is, I didn’t understand it at all.  But the street we lived on was filled with kids, all my own age, and the homes were all completely different as if they had been built as tiny Hollywood stage sets, each one designed by theme.  One friend up the block was named Michael, a freckle faced skinny kid who had an infectious laugh and didn’t mind playing with us girls.  He was particularly fond of my Creepy Crawlers set where we spent hours making rubber spiders with something called Plastigoop.  One day we were playing on his front lawn when a car drove up and stopped in front of his house.  He froze cold and stared at the car, deaf as I questioned what this intrusion to our game was.  As the car door opened and a man in a freshly pressed uniform got out, and Michael bolted to the car with outstretched arms as his father lifted him up into the air, holding him as close as he possibly could.  I stared, jaw dropped at this spectacle of surprise as they walked into the house, Michael’s feet barely touching the ground.  I stood invisible for several minutes.  Yes, of course this was his father home from the war.  I bounced a ball on the sidewalk, staying in place for quite a while before meandering home, making scooping shapes across the pavement with a soft branch until I arrived.  For some reason it was both defined and confusing.  I had stood there invisible and forgotten, but for such a very good reason.  I think I was envious.  Envious of the moment, the affection; the great hug, and the freedom to show such affection without embarrassment.  For some reason, too much affection at home was, embarrassing.  Or did I remember this wrongly?  Was it I that admonished affection instead?  Either way, there seemed very little of it in comparison to my friend’s life up the block, but I also didn’t court it.  If you aren’t raised with it, how would you know whether it was good or bad?  By what barometer can anybody judge the things you weren’t taught to understand?

I digress.  Again.

A year or two later when we were back in New York, my family had moved to Riverside Drive, and then up to Rye for the rest of my school years.  It was while living there that Robert Kennedy was shot, we landed on the moon, and the principal of our school brought his son into every class one day to introduce him to his students.  He was handsome in his dress uniform, and the two hooks, one for each hand, that peeked out from his sleeves.

This was a time when reality was not hidden away, only to be seen by adults.  We weren’t lied to, or treated like children.  We were given the chance to understand things at an early age, so that there was time to absorb and learn from it. 

Earliest memories.  Blue gray.  I was sitting in a car seat, surrounded by blue vinyl.  Car interior or car seat, who knows.  My parents must have been just outside the car, as I was inside alone.  Out the window I saw a row of apartment buildings, brick, and a courtyard with a large boulder in it.  It must have been cold out, as I think I was wearing a ski jacket.  A very tiny one, as I could not have been more than 2 or 3.

2nd earliest memory.  Out in the backyard, a babbling brook.  I liked to watch it at night, and listen to all the sounds it made.  I could hear it from my crib inside.  Even then I was an insomniac.  And being so, I had figured out how to get out of my crib.  I would climb down and walk around the house, careful not to wake anyone up.  One night I went to the bathroom to get a glass of water.  I stood in front of the sink.  It was too tall for me.  I went back to bed.

3rd earliest memory.  I was a little older.  4 or 5.  We had moved out of NYC and into a new house on Dearborn Avenue in Rye.  It was Christmas morning at about 4am.  Of course, I was wide awake.  I had asked Santa for a dollhouse every year.  My bedroom was off a hallway that looked down over the cathedral ceiling living room, where stood the Christmas tree.  I sat down on the floor with my legs stuck under the railings and over the side and held on to the railing as I creeped my head out into the room.  There under the tree was a tiny little suburban house, just big enough for a family of tiny dolls and all their furnishings.  I stayed there staring in wonder until I could hear my parents stirring and slipped back into my room and under the covers of my bed so they would never know that I had seen this treasure already in the light of the moon.

[continue]

01.|. 1978.01

A Hasidic man in long grey beard and longer prayer beads, was hunched over a notebook of numbers in long penciled columns.  It was a late day flight to JFK from Chicago, a flight which is dark with sleeping passengers in various stages of rest and restlessness, none with the overhead light on but this one man so intent on completing a task at hand.  Without any knowledge to what this work was, I identified far more with him and his mission than I did with the others on the plane.  He was completely absorbed in his world in the particular way that obsesses those who have an understanding of the perfect abstraction of tiny forms.  Of language.  Of pattern.

I’ve started to write.  Like so many from my NYC tribe, we all have stories to tell, some chronological, some of a single moment intensely memorable, others of a relationship unknown to the general public.  Mine… mine does not want to behave.  It does not want to run in a single line, or focus.  The writing is it’s own being, and I am clearly just a pair of hands to put it down in words.

I’m sitting in a hotel room in Syracuse, NY.  It’s cold outside, and I have hours of silence ahead of me.  I have an esophageal anomaly that causes me to be unable to swallow anything that is thicker than water without terrible heartburn or choking.  It’s quite simply, too small.  So everything I eat causes me pain.  I’ve always had insomnia, but now I can only sleep for 1-2 hours at a time, and that is with the highest dosage of melatonin and 2 over the counter sleeping pills.  Sometimes, I luck out.  Sometimes I will sleep for up to 6 hours, but only when I’ve gone through 2 or 3 hour long sleep cycles.  So all that time lost in the wee hours and between eating is spent thinking.  Thinking.  Thinking.  My brain is writing the story.  But it is like my broken sleep, my broken eating.  It only comes in chunks and spurts, unconnected, broken English.

So how do you write down a life in starts and stops?  

By starting.  Stopping.  And starting again.  Possibly the closest pattern to actual life.  There is no perfect continuum.  

In 1978, I was in my second year at SVA in NYC.  I would spend hours alone in the school library, writing in thinly lined white notebooks, utilizing every pore of the paper so that no space was spared.  I copied the words of artists before me… contemporary ones mostly so I could commit them to memory.  It was a time when I was the Hasidic man in his long grey beard, absorbed in an understanding of the perfect abstraction of tiny forms.  Of language.  Of pattern.

I desired no friends outside the few I trusted, I sought no attention for myself, as I had never received any.  I had no concept of being pretty, and certainly not of being desired, as that had always had bad results.  I was only interested in being as smart as I could be, long before I was smart at all.  I had been given no examples of exactly who that person would be.  Or who I might become.  

The other part of me wanted terribly to be admired.  But there was nothing about me that was particularly memorable or special.  I had been raised by someone who was sure that she and her entire family were all incredibly special and gifted people, and yet none of them had ever done anything that was even slightly memorable or unique.  

But to me, having no idea of the road you were taking was akin to death, so I forged ahead with the idea that I might take the same route as Helen Frankenthaler.  She seemed to be a perfectly suited example of an artist who also curated other artists; someone suited to the task of seeing and understanding, without necessarily being the one viewed.  But I am way ahead of myself… I should give you a little context first.

[continue]