Tornadoes learn how to spin from Mother Wind
Nobody knows how the lady learned to spin.
She spins so hard, so gracefully, her colors swirl.
One day, a headlamp broke through the skin on her forehead
throwing her off balance - or so she thought.
Right-handed Scissors, Sister Suffer, Left-of-Center Me
When I think about my relationship with scissors, my shoulders crinkle up, no joke. The same way paper shrinks away and crinkles up in my clumsy scissor hand grip. Scissors are, in many ways, the bane of my existence - the one thing that evades mastery in the midst of a recent explosion of creativity. Granted, if I took the time to study the many types of scissors, if I saved the money to build a collection of well-made examples of this fine invention - if I even had any clue whatsoever about how to make scissors conspire in my art . . .if I had patience maybe . . . who knows what I would be capable of?
“Home is where the heart is.” Well, by nature, my heart is all over the place, all the time. It always has been. Even as a child in pictures, regardless of the setting, whether it be in front of my house in Burr Ridge, IL, at the Brookfield Zoo, where I spent as much time as I could, balancing on a log at the duck pond in Cape May Point, New Jersey, or pretending to roller skate with street performers in Central Park when we lived in New York City when I was 3. . . you can see it.