One thing I miss most about New York is not being in New York. I grew up there, and went to college there, and I am grateful every day that I did. That I could find a two hour break between classes and get to chose between the Met or the Whitney or the New Museum, (etc, etc). That I got to chose from a long list of etceteras at nineteen was the city's great gift. That when I was a teenager I could take a train and in half an hour get to see or hear or watch or walk through the plays and concerts and shops made up by astoundingly creative people I hoped to be like some day. That my summer job was at a nature preserve where I dug up marsh mud and pulled a seining net and marooned a row boat when the tide went out. That when I was small there was a beach nearby and a public pool and we had a big backyard and streets canopied by interlacing Norway maples, and three different states were within driving distance, their landscapes unfolding past the back seat window of my parent's car. But for some reasons I can name and some I can't, I stopped making art. I worked plenty, at textile design, at graphic design, at designing kid's products. But art stopped. I started again in Florida, whatever got tangled up inside me unknotted itself here, maybe because of the distance, maybe the landscape, the extremes, maybe it was just the right time. But whatever I manage to do here has its roots up there, they almost literally stretch their way back up. All the reasons and impulses and origins are culled from that time and place.
But not being there means that I can't go up to see We've Got to Get Ourselves Back to the Garden, at Kenise Barnes' beautiful gallery. Happily for me, my brother Jody still lives in New York, and he and his girlfriend Kirsten went there for me. And took pictures.