I was raised in the Chicago area, went to school amid the cornfields. I earned a degree in Experimental Psychology. Then I moved to Idaho where I worked in tedious office jobs producing reams of paperwork, expertly formatted, no typos. When not engaged in mindless tedium, I was busy with photography, gardening, cross country skiing, framing other people’s art, and hours squandered at Happy Hours. I kept so busy I couldn’t hear the voice inside my head asking “Might you be an artist?” I took thousands of photos and developed and printed them, but wouldn’t hang them in my own home. I was in denial. My degree in Psychology offered no insight. I was unfulfilled and always there was that blank space on the wall of my psyche that I refused to acknowledge. Until one day I did. Now everywhere I turn there are paintings, collages, assemblages, photographs crowding the walls of my home. They are ballast, maps, stories. They are my thoughts splayed out for anyone to look at – which is kind of scary. But that’s okay. I might be an artist and artists should be brave. Maybe I’m that, too.