There was this thing back then, about reconsidering open spaces, when the era of pavement was getting old, and people where looking for green environs; but I saw red. Was there a phoenix within the wheat fields, or is that an angel rising? It might be Christmas morning among the poinsettias, but then again, those that Frannie sent lasted past Easter, and this heavenly ghost is wearing white. I put the paint on the canvas, big as a wall, and kept going. More red, more red, and my studio was saturated in its reflection, like a nightclub off Times Square, or the inside of an Italian glass goblet. Her wings like a Deco butterfly, she ascends to the heavens, (also red), enraptured like St. Teresa, yet somehow stuck in the modern world; maybe it’s the the cut of the gown, or that design element of anchored dress tails.
A long time ago, all of this was thrilling.