I’ve been making art for as long as anyone remembers.

I suspect my mother remembers a day of particular exasperation in the 1980s when my spin art project in the laundry room endangered a number of my father’s dress shirts. She’s also certain to remember my first large site-specific installation piece (because she has reminded me and memorialized the image), a self-portrait, perhaps, drawn brilliantly on my bedroom wall in the late 1970s. So at least that long.

I made it through art school in the 1990s (not sure I’d recommend the process to the average tender-hearted human).

I’ve spent the last 20 years spending a questionable amount of money on rent due to needing a place to put all my collected paint, collage items (I *might* need that someday), old dictionaries, pieces of wood, electric griddle, empty cat food cans, etc. And sometimes I have managed to make art in those spaces too.

The last couple of years have brought the wild disruption off-handedly referred to as a mid-life crisis to those who’ve clearly not yet had one. Mine has involved upheaval of relationships, work, home and health because I like to be well-rounded, balanced and thorough.

And now I’m actually making art for real.