Brought up in the rural country-side of western Pennsylvania. Middle child syndrome, trying to find a voice in between the cornfields and whispering forests. Finding relief in burying my head in paper, to block out the noise of the yokle gossip. Finding any surface to scribble on, receipts, backs of restaurant menus, napkins. Anywhere was my playing field.
“Do you have a pen?” echo’s through my mothers mind.
“She was two when she picked up a paint brush. I cried. It was beautiful. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing”
Making art in the pouring ran, snow falling. Fingers numb. Grasping it all.
You want to be a true artist, but you couldn’t even get out of your comfort zone.
Anything to get the inspiration out.
“Do you find enjoyment in it?”
“Do you mean the continual arthritis I created in me?”