My mother went to the Arts Student League and studied with George Grosz, and her parents were also artists. I had access to their boxes of used up coloured pencils, pastels, pads of paper, etc.
At night when other children might have been read aloud to from picture books, my mother and I would lie in the dark and imagine what it must have been like for escaping slaves. In our night-time musings, we imagined we were escaping, running through the woods. Sometimes I had nightmares. I worried a lot about Harriet Tubman, whom I couldn’t grasp was no longer alive.
When we moved to the suburbs of Pennsylvania from NYC, my father commuted back and forth to the city in order to finish his doctorate. My mother, left to her own devices, embraced her inner hippy self. She organised demonstrations against the Vietnam War, and there were parties on our front yard where teenagers burned their draft cards in impromptu bonfires. The neighbourhood teenagers willingly posed nude in exchange for painting and drawing classes which took place in our kitchen and living room. I drew (not very well) from nude models from the age of five or six years old.
When my father returned on the weekends from the city, my mother put all that away, and made applesauce and mayonnaise. She became a model housewife. I am not sure my father was even aware of her escapades.
I remembering saying, "well, this is the only thing I really love doing, and I feel the happiest when I am making stuff, so I still want to go”. My father flew into a rage and said, “Your mother went to art school, and had to give all that up when she had you! If you go and steal her dream, it will kill her...”
It was a bad scene. Even though I saw clearly that my father was deranged in that moment, I felt horrible. That conversation, and other similar ones made me more adamant about moving out and having a life separate from one with them.
My parents finally agreed to let me go to art school, but they stopped speaking to me altogether for the following four years. After I moved out of their house I still saw them sporadically, but we didn’t talk about my classes, or about art. It took them a long time to come around...

Will had a reassuring way of looking at various aspects of living the life as a professional artist. While he did lament that I had not gotten any kind of college degrees so was unable to teach at a university, he did say that collectors come and go – he once told me he had outlived all of his gallery owners (except for the last one who is still active) – and he said that even during periods when my work wasn’t selling, the best thing I could do was to hunker down and ride it out, there would always be a new batch of collectors.
Sometimes today when I panic about money or my career, I go for a walk in the woods and imagine what Will would say to encourage me. Just imagining the conversation comforts me. I think he has influenced me a great deal as an artist. The older I get, the more I appreciate his spare style, sometimes I believe my ideas somewhat mirror some of his.
The following morning (which was the day of my opening), we drove to the city and I went by the gallery. I was confused by the red dots I saw next to each of my pieces. I asked the gallerist seated at the front desk what the meaning of the red dots were, and she said casually, “Oh, that actress Demi Moore was walking by the gallery and saw your work through the window and came in and bought ten pieces!”
After she bought those pieces, other collectors heard about my show having sold so well, and I guess they didn’t want to miss out, and they bought up the rest of the work. I was so excited and overwhelmed, I didn’t sleep for three nights! It was hard to process what had happened. Ultimately subsequent shows had their ups and downs, and I came back down to earth
A piece of mine was acquired by the Renwick Museum in Washington DC about twenty years ago. A month later, the piece was returned to me with a letter written by the newly-hired museum curator, accusing me of creating a deliberately offensive piece that made fun of women going through infertility treatments! The tone of the letter was such that I felt it impossible to respond. The woman’s mind was made up and she would not be dissuaded from her opinion.
So yes, it is difficult to me when I make a piece from a pure place in my heart, and it causes people to feel pain when they look at it. I have to remind myself that art is neutral – and people project their own issues onto art work.

We are lucky that we are pretty compatible, and we are also lucky that we can make our pieces independent of each other. Robert helps me so much, not just with insight and perspective that I might be lacking because I am too close to my work. He also lifts my heavy moulds and melts out of the wax, he photographs my pieces, programs my annealing, and he packs up my sculptures for shipping to galleries. I probably wouldn’t be able to do my work without his help, I would have to take up something like crocheting – something that doesn’t need so much muscle.
We moved to rural PA because I craved being around birds and trees, and having a calmer pace than I had while in the city. Even now when I go to a city I initially feel out of my mind with happiness at all the stimulation (and good multicultural food). But after a few hours a migraine sets in, and I feel overly caffeinated and jittery. Also, I tend to lose my sense of myself when I am around too many people. I am an introvert, and I need a lot of time by myself in order not to feel overwhelmed. I do think my work could be made probably anywhere else. But for whatever reason, I am happier when surrounded by nature.
My work is very intuitive… when something feels right, then I know I am going in the right direction.

I talk about death and the afterlife with my children, until they remind me that they have heard all my stories a million times, and they don’t want to hear them again. They humour me.
I kind of figured at the onset of the pandemic that people weren’t going to be thinking about buying art, so I made the decision not to obsess over any decrease or lack of money coming in. I accepted it, and made the decision that since my work probably wasn’t going to be selling anyway, I might as well just make pieces for myself. My friends and I discussed the different ways we were each handling stress and anxiety, and one of them told me she was collecting beautiful moments.
Each day she took notice of beautiful moments as they happened, and at the end of the day she would reflect on them. I loved this, and I too, started becoming aware of the beautiful moments as they happened.
Sometimes it was a moment of laughing hysterically in the car with my daughter Violet, or feeling my cat Bob curl up behind my knees when I slept; an indigo bunting eating at the bird feeders, and the three legged deer who came each day to root through my compost pile. “Right now!” I would think, “This is a beautiful moment!” It made me realise how lucky I am to be alive in this, and every beautiful moment. I think the pandemic gave me a greater appreciation for my life than I had before this virus came along. That was the basis of my show’s title - the idea that every moment can be beautiful and complete, no matter what terrible thing is raging on in the world.











