These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 302: I lived with Rory in the small studio for a very short time. We got a larger place. My self-esteem was all over the place. I joined the Army as a reservist. Ahh.

He almost broke up with me when I returned. The physicality of it didn’t allow that to occur between us. So I thought, what to do? I can’t live with him, and I can’t see him walking down the street with someone else. I know, we’ll go to Florida and I’ll leave him there and he won’t find his way back. Okay, I was reaching. But we did go to Florida.

By Georgia we were in love. What is it about the tropics, or at least the South?

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 301: My new digs with a new babe. Scary. Fun. Not a lot of space.

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 216: I was working in pastel. Rory was working on scrimshaw. Beautiful piece. Ended up being purchased by the Essex-Peabody Museum in Salem. But this is about me. Or is it?

Lynch Park, Beverly, Massachusetts.

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These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 215: With Rory my abstinence was over. Lots of stories. He had crystals around his apartment. I thought they were evil. hmm. I thought he was worshipping them. I wasn’t use to physical objects and spirituality mixed. I grew to understand.

He was cute. I was always so proud of him. Of course he still is, and I still am proud of him. One gets carried away when they have someone they can look up to and be romantically involved with at the same time. I lost a little bit of myself. He wanted to reshape me. Mother Mercy. I have no control over all of this. And I know I’m not perfect. What am I actually saying?!

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 214: She was a nice model. I think Gabin knew I liked bums, so he placed the model for me. This was one of the last classes with Gabin. I was getting tired of him, and he of me. But I credit him for great training–until it wasn’t.

As my friend in New York had to break her art teacher’s heart when she moved on, I moved on. But I did not break his heart, he was breaking mine.

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 213: Perfume bottle from Daniel Lowes, Salem, Massachusetts. I borrowed the bottle from Daniel Lowes. Think of that. hmm. I was trying to be painterly with the pastels.

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 212: Chip liked hanging out here. Front Street bar in Salem, Massachusetts with a funny name, like “A Low-life Bar.” Relaxed. Observing. I love it.

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 211: I really don’t mean anything by it. But it’s everywhere. Rubber gloves, the hand of God giving life to Adam : )

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 210: By now I have met my husband-to-be, Rory. We have not moved in together. I didn’t want to. I had all my art pieces hanging on the walls of my small apartment. I asked him if he could get a room or apartment in my same building. but of course it was a nut house. He really wanted to save on rent. I said no, but Divinity said yes.

My friend and neighbor, Paul, called me up and said “They’re boarding up one of your windows.”

“They wouldn’t do that,” I responded confidently.

But they were! The landlord with a screw loose was actually putting siding directly over my window “To save on heat” he said. Oh my goodness. #@!#! And he picked the window that had the Best View from the apartment, see below. So I packed it up and moved in with Rory.

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 209: Mother Mercy.

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 208: Russell. One of those Turgeon boys, and a good friend.

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 207: Adam and the apple.

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 206: Chintz bedroom chair, lovely fabric, worse for wear.

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 205: The Ropes Mansion is next to the First Church on Essex Street in Salem which I drew when I first met my husband. Anyway. It’s very pretty.

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 204: I’m leaving this space open for a portrait of Chip Pelletier leaning against a bureau, if I ever find it again! Not that it was great, but Chip was representative of my time in art school before meeting Rory Goff. My name before I was married was.. what is in a name? a rose by any other name…

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 203: The classes weren’t just with George Gabin. Jim Sawyer was one of the teachers, and this model was a relative of his. Quick sketch in pastel.

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 202: A new class often begins with a self-portrait assignment. I always liked this picture. People hate it as a representation.

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 201: I loved Catie, my best friend, and this sketch became more important to me when Paul passed away. Catie & Paul. Cottage in Ipswich, used to be a schoolhouse.

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 109 sketchbook, Lyceum Pub and Restaurant.

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 107: the small sketchbook, live from the Lyceum Pub and Restaurant.

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 106: I loved seeing love. I saw love in drawings.

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 105: This was one of my favorite drawings. I loved seeing the sheerness of the curtain. It was a milestone for me. At this time I sketched frequently around Salem. I was shy to sketch in public, but I did it anyway. I saw my husband for the first time during one of these outings. There’s another story.

It is a fairy tale:

There was an old woman with 2 shopping bags who wanted to talk to me while I was working on a drawing of the First Church in Salem. I was annoyed. She talked on and on. Her name was Ruth.

“My ring was given to me by….” “I go to the Senior Center at…” “I go to church at the…” and whatever else she was saying!

I tried to ignore her.

Then she left and a handsome man took her place, “Nice picture!”

I ignored him also. When he walked on I noted that I had just ignored a handsome man.

When I got home I felt awful about ignoring the old woman, so I went to her church the next day and drew a large picture of the church for her. I felt the spirit of people running up the front stairs to the church doors in the picture–glorifying the heavens, and again, loving God.

I then went to the Senior Center she told me about and I asked for her. She wasn’t there yet, so I left the picture for her.

Ten years later, after having married the handsome man who I ignored that day, I saw Ruth once again in a restaurant. she was telling the same story she told me ten years before about her ring.

“Is your name Ruth?” I asked.

“Yes,” she responded.

“I met you about ten years ago and delivered a picture of your church to the Senior Center. Did you get it?”

“Yes,” she responded happily.

“I just want to let you know that there was a man I saw the same day I saw you, and I ended up marrying him.”

Ladies, and Gentlemen, it is like the gate-keeper of good. It is an old truism–be kind to the least of these and the kingdom of heaven will open.

Okay, off the soap box, and I am truly blessed in marriage.

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 104: Charcoal: Meditation, prayer, contemplation, ya-de ya-de, call it what you may, it is good to leave huge chunks of time for devotional work. Art was an expression of God–for me. The books under the lamp were my bibles of different spiritual paths. I saw the oneness of the content since I was reading all of them with my filter of my love of the Divine. I was so pleased to see my Dear God everywhere I turned.

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 103: Charcoal, on site of the harbor from Derby’s Wharf in Salem, Massachusetts: As I mentioned earlier Derby’s Wharf is a place I look out from to contemplate the immensities of the world, both seen and unseen.

I returned here when my grandmother died to think about her.

And on this day, drawing this picture, I was returning to capture a unique spiritual experience I had just had that week at the end of summer, 1988.

I was studying all the spiritual bibles I could find–Book of Mormon, the Koran, the Bhagavad-Gita, the Old Testament, the New Testament. I was in rapture. I was guided. Everything I was told came to pass. What I asked for was given. I was in love. with God. with God. with God. It meant a lot.

On this day, I had asked “How did Jesus walk on water?”

I may someday tell you how this story ends.

Thank you for listening!

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 102: Charcoal, from life, 2nd floor of the Essex Institute, Salem, Massachusetts.

These are their stories. Clang, Clang. 101: Charcoal.

Before I left Conde Nast I was mediating between software programmers and the different manufacturing and distribution departments to help the programmers understand the business to create custom systems. My days focused more on programming. To relieve the grayness of some of this work I visited a friend transplanted from Salem who was taking art classes from Marshall Glasier on the 3rd floor of the Art Students League, and also rooming with him. I drank up the visuals in their apartment near the the Hudson River on the upper west side, and enjoyed one poignant dinner with them, as my friend was trying to move on to another teacher.

We both ended moving back to Salem, she one year after I moved.

I asked her, “I’m thinking of taking art classes. Would you recommend life drawing or a watercolor class?”

At this point I really had no perspective that I would need to draw before learning to paint. She set me straight. I signed up for an intensive taught by George Gabin at Montserrat College of Art in Beverly, Massachusetts, my home town. Coincidentally, he was from the Art Student’s League of New York. I studied with him for a year or more part time after the intensive. And to repeat the Law and Order theme “These are their stories–Clang, Clang!”

I left Manhattan in 1984 to work at Musician Magazine in Gloucester, Massachusetts, near my home town. Another story. My Dad thought it was a mistake that I left New York, but I had broken up with Tim O and had to get back to my senses.

I leave this spot open to any art I find before I moved back to Massachusetts, or soon after.

At Conde Nast I had employment in the editorial quality control department for all Conde Nast Publications. It was a cushy job. And it was fun. We likened it to a country club. Maybe I should have had more … more… maybe Protestant work ethic? but I didn’t. And neither did anyone else. Well, except Steuer.

The men began the day with the London crossword puzzle. There was a network of puzzle-solvers across the company and when one person filled in an answer they would call each other to write it in. Lunches were long. I swam at the Health & Racquet Club most lunches.

Actually, we competed for the work that was available. Carl Steuer mothered the great titles of Vogue and Vanity Fair. I fell in love with every Assistant Art Director from Vanity Fair–like a sickness. Guy Guillieum, God love him, took Self Magazine under his wing after the crossword puzzle.

When completed, I showed the quick sketch of the office interactions to Risko, and he said “Did You do that?” with a quick moment of contemplation. I accepted that as a compliment.

In 1982 Time Magazine celebrated its 60th anniversary on the QE2 docked in New York harbor. I was lucky enough to have been invited via Tim O’Meara who worked at Time. At the time, I worked at Conde Nast Publications. I had a cute short haircut and was slender!

This sketch was dashed off after the event when I was home.

I loved my previous portrait. This portrait was dashed off and not as important, but I kept it. The other I loved it, and I ripped it up. It is because I value change.

I brought this portrait to New York in the 1980s. Tim O’Meara and I were hosting a party at our apartment in North Huntington and he brought his friend inside the house just to show him this portrait. They quietly contemplated the picture. They were both photographers.

This portrait took me a month. But when I was finished, I knew it. It is a self-portrait, I suppose. Of course. What else would it be?

Warren Wilson and I hung around together because we both spoke a language of art. My sketch here shows my lean towards a page layout. The blank space would have been for type; as if I’m sketching mock-ups for a magazine or other printed page. I dummied hundreds of thumbnails for print pages and have never produced one of them. yawn. Why do I persist?

Warren and I hung out at Burger King, now defunct, in downtown Salem. We had no money, so a Whopper and fries would take care of eating for the day. Thud.

It got complicated. You do one wrong thing to hide another wrong thing, and before you realize that you’re messing yourself up, you’ve done it. It didn’t seem that bad going in. No, I’m not going to share.

But there’s always a thread of good and I hang onto it!

When I got back from California my brother was living on Derby Street in Salem. I wanted him to be an ideal brother, but you can’t expect miracles. But he was a great guy and had wonderful parties. I hoped my brother was someone who could protect me, as I thought a normal brother’s role was; or was he in fact evil? Well, he’s not evil.

The Derby Street parties were famous with a huge gang of people back then. We drank a lot. We all lived in apartments on the same street which was known in the 1700s and today for its bars. I developed very intimate platonic relationships with Henry Turgeon (redhead in sketch) and his siblings. I was dating one of his siblings.

I was Miss-Popularity there until one day. You never know when it’s going to happen. It was innocent enough. Jack Turgeon swung me around on the sidewalk in front of others. There was something about this act that made me look like a fool, as Jack was prone to do. But somehow, in my own mind, this time it stuck with me. I knew it was time to move on. Simple enough.

Yet even so, I was impressed with Salem as my town, although I was from a neighboring town. Until this very day I go back to Derby Street, look out from the long wharf, out into the harbor, and find the greatest meaning of what life is. (See the charcoal of the harbor.)

Yes, I did drop out of high school for a year and went to evening classes at the High School in the neighboring town of Salem. I went to the housemaster at Beverly High School during this time and told him I was going to transfer the credits back to Beverly High and graduate with my class.

“You can’t do that! If you could do that, Everybody would do it!” he huffed.

I was perplexed. I took this knowledge back home and thought, “I’ll drop some of my classes, and just take the classes I like.” And so I did.

After the year was up I went to the Beverly High principal’s office (three housemasters report to the one principal) and spoke with our kind principal. He accepted the credits I had, and I told him how I would have had more but the housemaster told me they wouldn’t accept them.

“I would have accepted them,” he said.

An example of another way the housemaster got back at me for being one of his most disappointing students, or some other thick-headed reason why the housemaster gave me incorrect information. Oh well.

So I repeated the grade and graduated from Beverly High School a year after my class.

After graduation my friend Brian Thomas and I traveled to California.

This is a sketch from the trip.

Enlightenment. It’s simple. You see the light a certain way.

Even on a bus.

I lived in Boston for awhile. It was lonely without my friends from Salem. This may have been drawn before I moved to Boston, as I visited Boston and Cambridge often since it was just a commute into town.

The Cambridge side is very relaxing. Boston and Cambridge are great walking cities, and you can reach Boston via bridges over the Charles.

Contrary to what this Baby inside a B hints to autobiographically, I was never pregnant in high school and had to leave, etc. etc. NEVER. But the embryonic essence in this 18″ x 24″ “B” is what I liked about this typographic painting.

I painted this when I lived on the 3rd floor of Winter Street in Salem.

High School–why did I leave? The emphasis is on the first word, and besides that I was impregnated with ideas from the book Summerhill by A. S. Neill, and concepts of “free schools” and “schools without walls” etc. I skimmed the book Summerhill about 10 years ago and now do not agree with his philosophy–or I agree but believe Summerhill could use more EXCELLENT RESOURCES to inspire and assist students.

Living on Winter Street in the neighboring town of Salem for the first time when I was 16 years old: I had quit high school and now with my parents blessing moved out of the house to a rooming house owned by my best friend’s friend’s mother. I had been a run-away when I was 14 and I was bound to leave the nest early. The other roomers were college students attending Salem State College (now a University).

I lived on the third floor of a grand Victorian with a mansard roof. The third-floor windows in my room had sills you could sit on outdoors — if you weren’t afraid of heights.

You can see an example of a mansard roof dormer with wide ledges in the sketch.

This sketch was looking Northwest to the other historic homes in the neighborhood. Lovely place.