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From the time I was very small, my parents recognized that I was living in my own head and gave me crayons, paper, paints, and markers and it seemed by drawing and painting that this was the best way to communicate. There was never a question I was to be an artist. The only question was which medium would it be?
My father left when I was eight and by this time I had a brother. I don't remember how long we were on the farm without my father, although I remember very clearly the night he left. It seemed to be the worst possible thing that could befall us~this disruption of our tight unit of artists.
Whether significant or not this separation provoked me to further disclose what it was like living in my own head.
When I was 11, My mother packed us and moved us to the city where things became very awkward for me. Imagine talking with few, if any people, to seeing and being with people all the time! Frustration and confusion were my only emotions then and the beauty and artistic side of life (which had been part of our regular existence) disappeared as my mother worked to fulfill our basic necessities.
