I have known Joyce my entire life. My parents and Joyce and her husband were close friends, and we would drive up on weekends to visit them. Going to visit Joyce and Dick was a true adventure for me, because Joyce was an artist who filled her house, as close to a tree house as I had ever seen, with amazing things. Her rooms were composed like sets staged from both her imagination and real-life wanderings. There were artist's objects and found things, flowers from her garden, insect wings and books, dolls and embroideries, beads from places I knew about only from pictures. Everything was something I could pick up and examine, because this was not a museum, or a status symbol. Joyce lived her collections-they were her heart and her mind.
This is a different house, though very much the same. And I'm much older, but I feel the same way when I visit her. She's been a mentor to me, in many ways, and one of the major reasons why I still hold onto hope when I'm art-making. You can see her influence in my own aesthetics, though her curiosity cabinet of a house is miles beyond what I can compose. So I wanted to share her world, the way she's shared hers with me.