> 2005 - 2010



Painted bronze, wood, copper and keys, 2007, 18" x 18" x 32".

Laying down my pencil in disgust, I was jolted with the realization that I hadn’t spoken more than the few words needed to buy groceries or greet a neighbor in weeks. My husband was fishing in Alaska. Our cat had died months earlier, but I refused the offer of a neighbor’s kitten out of fear of one day having to grieve its loss.

For years I wondered what was wrong with me. I sifted through my memories for ones to explain the sudden and complete fear that would grip me, unannounced, uninvited. I never was prepared for those moments when my body, my words were hijacked, for my embarrassment, my anger that I had no control, no say in when or what words were allowed to come out of my mouth. After our move to the coast away from friends and the routines of work, it was easy to slip into the life of a recluse. I loved the dramas and rhythms of small town life, but I watched from the sidelines. Within the safety of my carefully fenced off world, my body was rarely triggered to betray me. I was lulled into contentment.

Staring at my stale, lifeless drawing, I realized that freedom from fear has a price. My life and my art had shriveled within the confines of my self-imposed isolation.

It would be decades before I pieced together the whys of my fear. But the next morning, I crossed the street and accepted my neighbor’s cat - Stanley.

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