My work explores the play between the use of universal symbols culled from Greek and Christian mythology and the archetypes of my own unconscious, expressing such themes as: birth, love, sex and death. I had completed more than a dozen marble sculptures—writhing fragmented figures that I imagined continuing on past the edge where the sculpture stops—when marble sculpture became too limiting in size and scope. I then began to create larger-than-life-sized figures in plaster and taught myself to cast in concrete. In 1986, I had my first exhibition—a solo show at the Sutton Gallery on East Fifty-seventh Street.
I had always planned to be a writer—until I turned sixteen and my first therapist's meticulous analysis of a poem I had just finished made me feel as if my flawed, naked psyche was on display. I fled therapy and switched to visual art, thinking I could conceal my secret self behind opaque images much more effectively than something as revealing as words.
And then, suddenly, and almost of its own volition, my sculpture took an unexpected autobiographical turn. I had no recourse but to hide the work itself. Convinced there was no good reason to leave the house, I hid myself as well. It wasn't until I met my husband and soulmate, Art, that I was able to come out of my self-imposed isolation and build a life.
We had been married for almost twenty years when Art was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer.
After Art died, I couldn't believe how much it hurt. I needed to express my anguish—using words—images would come later. The resulting memoir, LOSING ART, is about so much more than pain—it is an intense love story.