Well peeps, the time is here and I am so stoked I can barely see straight. I leave ultra early in the morning on Saturday for the long drive to Atlanta and my long awaited internship with the fabulous artist Pam Longobardi. We met quite serendipitously while I was working an internship for my undergraduate studies at The Maier Museum of Art. I walked into the room to help hang the show which was focused on artists addressing environmental issues, to find Pam busily pinning to the wall small pieces of colorful, plastic trash she had collected off of South Point Beach on the Big Island of Hawaii to create an eye color test chart that read Dead C in its center. I happened to be wearing a necklace I had created from beach glass collected off that very same beach. We bonded instantly over our mutual love of Hawaii, the ocean, and all things environmental. Now, several years later, after Pam and her wonderful Drifter's Project have been shown all over the world (pictured here at the Art Life Gallery in Venice), and I have dutifully continued trudging through school hoping to learn how to create such amazing and inspired environmental art works as Pam, I have been given the incredible opportunity to work with her on her latest installation called Material Drift in the Sandler Hudson Gallery Atlanta next week. So, in honor of this exciting moment, I have copied the link to my article on Pam's upcoming show recently published at Got2BeGreen. It has all the details on Material Drift opening May 21st in Atlanta. I hope to see some of you there. Thanks to Pam for providing this opportunity and the photo of her work. For more go to Got2BeGreen.
While my 91 year old Gramma was in the hospital with pneumonia three weeks ago, I began to paint the clouds in the sky after one particularly hard night. She was begging God to let her die, while all I could do to help was hold her hand. We prayed together that he would hear her and take her home. Finally, after several hours, she let me sing her back to sleep. The next day, my mind was on the clouds, and so I began to paint.
Initially, I bought the large sheet of Yupo paper to attempt a portrayal of the monarch butterflies, a subject I'm often moved to paint because of my connection to their wintering grounds near my childhood home of Morelia, Mexico. In the past, I have painted the monarchs with the memory of standing among billions of them at the Del Rosario Monarch Sanctuary north or Morelia.
This time, I wanted to paint the beginning of their journey from here in the Blue Ridge Mountain of Virginia all the way back home to the exact spot of their births. In my mind's eye, I pictured a mountain landscape, the view off a favorite overlook on the Blue Ridge Parkway with a few butterflies fluttering around. But, after Gramma's horrible night, my head was in the clouds and I thought, "I'll just buy another sheet of paper later."
As I painted, however, I could not help but think of Gramma's struggle to die as a long journey not unlike that of the monarchs. I have always been fascinated by the thought of these tiny, seemingly frail butterflies and their ability to traverse continents in a few weeks only to breed and die.
Likewise, Gramma had become a frail, little thing struggling against the elements with each passing day. Having been diagnosed with severe dementia many years ago, she had very little hearing left, and macular degeneration had claimed her eyesight, too. She had very little quality of life for such an independent and active person, and she kept saying she had lived entirely too long already. It seemed she was ready to die, but just wasn't sure how to begin the final journey.
We prayed every night Gramma was in the hospital that God would take her, but alas once more she pulled through the pneumonia and returned to her home at Heritage Green Assisted Living a week later. At the time, she was diagnosed with the beginning stages of congestive heart failure as the underlying cause for the fluid in her lungs.
Then, last Saturday at four in the morning while I has home alone for the weekend, the nursing home called to say Gramma had fallen and cut her arm, that I should meet her at the emergency room. When I arrived, they already had her on a stretcher and were giving her high levels of oxygen. The nurse felt her low count might have been part of the reason she fell trying to get out of bed. Gramma was only in minimal pain, however, because the skin tear on her arm was superficial, and with her poor circulation, she really didn't feel it much unless they were touching it. Thankfully, there were no broken bones.
That night was our blessing. With the high levels of oxygen, Gramma was very lucid and clear-minded for a woman in her condition. So, for the four hours it took to find out she was officially okay - they literally applied Neosporin and gauze - she and I were able to really talk for the first time in ages. At some point, I told her I would give her memory back if I could. She really seemed to like that. I told her I loved her, and for once, I knew she heard me and understood.
That night was God's gift to us both. I'm sure of it. At long last, I drove her back to the nursing home and we got her tucked up in bed in her favorite pink pajamas under the quilt my aunt made for her last Christmas. Reluctantly, I left her when she said she needed to sleep, and by the time I arrived to check on her that evening, she had faded back into her dementia.
The next day, I returned to my studio and began to paint small butterflies onto my finished sky. Without much real thought, I landed on the number four. At first, I considered painting a whole trail across the sky, but once the first was painted and I saw the impact of the tiny creature in the large expanse of blue, that idea went right out the window.
In hindsight, I think the number four was my unconscious need to represent the four directions, earth, air, fire, and water, or north, south, east, and west, because I always give thanks to the four directions in my own spiritual practices. After several tries over a period of days, I got my butterflies just the way I wanted them and my painting was complete, except for my least favorite thing...figuring our how to frame it.
In the meantime, the nursing home staff began Gramma on short treatments of oxygen, but over the week her skin began to look grayish, and she seemed less responsive at times. My cousin Jason was scheduled to visit her on Tuesday, and he commented on how bad she looked. We assured him she had an appointment to see her doctor Thursday afternoon. They were planning to check her arm and discuss how they might manage keeping her on oxygen. We wondered if they could keep her from removing it all the time, because after about five minutes, she would not remember why it was in her nose and take it right back out.
Alas, that doctor's visit was not to be. Thursday at 11:30 the staff got Gramma cleaned up and dressed and had her in the wheelchair ready to go. But, when Mom arrived, she was slumped in her chair and not responding at all. After checking her over, the staff felt she had gone into acute cardiac failure, and they called for an ambulance.
I was at The Framery where I get most of my works framed. I decided long ago to save my sanity by never again attempting to cut my own mats. The guys who run the little frame shop down the street from my studio are great about letting me bring old frames I scavenge from garage sales and antique shops and cutting them to fit my work. Then, all I have to pay for is the matting and a small fee for the cuts. Plus, I get the added benefit of recycling old, used frames that might otherwise end up in our county landfill.
For my sky painting, I had chosen a silver frame and a warm, white mat that matched the color of my clouds. Having just unwrapped the work to see it for the first time in its entirety, my phone rang. I answered Mom's call excited to tell her how great the painting looked only to find out Gramma was being rushed to the emergency room.
During the long afternoon and evening ahead, Gramma was mostly unresponsive, and her breathing had taken on this loud, rattling sound. Every now and then she would moan, and I would talk to her until she calmed back down and slept. It seemed like forever before they finally admitted her officially and called our doctor's group in to consult.
Thankfully, we got Doctor Woodward. While he was assessing Gramma, he began discussing our options for treatments to remove the fluids from her lungs. I said that if I could convince him to do a Dr. Kevorkian I would. I complained about the fact that we had just been able to euthanize our elderly, suffering cat several weeks ago but could not offer the same dignity to my own Gramma. He responded that we were often more humane to our animals, but then miracle of miracles, he began to talk to my family about the option of "comfort care." He admitted that the hospital did not have to treat her at all, but could just give her pain medications and keep her comfortable until the end.
Gramma already had a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) order in her living will, so it seemed we knew where she stood on the issue. Plus, the doctor admitted that even it they treated the fluid in her lungs, they had nothing to help heart failure of this stage, and we would simply be prolonging life until her lungs filled up with fluids again in short order. It seems a no brainer, but in the face of actually making the choice, we were all a little hesitant. How do we know for sure we are making the right decision? As if on cue, Gramma woke up and began to mumble to me. I was rubbing her forehead and she said it felt good. Then, she said as clear as a bell, "Please, please. I just want to go home. Help me find my way home."
The doctor moved Gramma up to a room in the stunning, new oncology ward with a view of the mountains. The hospital provided us with a pull-out couch and a lazy chair so we could be comfortable, and they called the hospice people to speak with us the following day. The doctor made sure Gramma was given morphine right away, and they took her off all other medications. In short order, she was sleeping deeply and seemed fairly comfortable apart from the horrible, loud, rattling breaths she took in a steady rhythm. I fell asleep that night to the steady rattle and the burbling of the humidified oxygen tank running above her head. She only woke once during the night and the nurses gave her another dose of morphine, quickly returning her to a deep sleep.
The following day, my family came to the hospital to relieve me. I convinced Mom to go home at 4 am and get a few hours of sleep in her own bed since she is dealing with a torn rotater cuff in her shoulder. Plus, I had the upcoming art show at my studio with 300 guest already invited on Sunday afternoon. It was Friday, and we had not yet hung the art on the walls. I was going to need to leave for a while at some point, too. Mom and my uncle convinced me it would be okay, although I felt a little frantic about leaving. We got a friend to come help us hang the art, and together with my studio mate, we worked non-stop to get the whole thing done as fast as possible. By late afternoon, I was back where I belonged at my Gramma's side. I convinced my family to go have a supper break, and I got some alone time with her to make up for leaving. I was so tired, I fell asleep holding her hand by the bed for a while.
Something woke me out of a deep slumber to find Gramma's eyes open. She was staring off into the distance and moving her eyebrows around a bit as if she was straining to make out what was there. Worried she was in pain, I called for another dose of morphine. Just after the nurse administered it into her IV, I began to rub her forehead and sing to her, trying to comfort her back to sleep, but she just kept looking into the distance. I sang her favorite song, "The Lord of the Dance," and another Shaker tune called, "How Can I Keep From Singing." I sang my favorite Ben Harper song, "Blessed to be a Witness." Then, I sang "Amazing Grace." I kept coming back to the verse that ends, "Twas Grace that brought us safe thus far, and Grace will lead me home," so I sang that verse to her twice more.
When the singing ended, Gramma took three more breaths and she was gone. The room went from the loud rattling to a still, quiet, comforting peace. Gramma's face went from struggling to see that distant object to a calm look of rest. While the nurses came in to listen to her heart, I called Mom to let her know. Within five minute, Gramma was pronounced officially home at last, and my painting had its title...The Long Journey Home.
While the world wakes up around me with the lovely sounds of spring, and the sun begins to warm up the over frozen ground, I am going back to bed. After a miserable time of nursing my Gramma back to semi-health from pneumonia a couple of weeks ago, I picked up whatever virus has been keeping every bed at every hospital in town full. Let me just state the obvious: I'm not having fun!
My doctor told me I was in for at least ten days of hell, and although I thought at the time it really wasn't helpful to be told such a thing, I guess it has kept me from panicking too much. I still don't feel a whole heap better at ten days than I did on day one. Alas, I did get one house call out of him, an extra-ordinary circumstance, to be sure. He was afraid I had contracted meningitis, but because the hospitals are so over-run, he came over to my house. I am happy to report, I do not have meningitis. Plus, I now am the proud possessor of antibiotics, something he doesn't give lightly.
Anyway, there isn't much fun to report here, nor do I have the brain power, filled as it is with all assortment of bugs and drugs, to write anything too delightful for your reading pleasure just now. So, I have opted to link you to a few places where my work has recently been published in hopes you might enjoy a poem or two of mine and some of the fine writing of others.
I was honored recently when my grad school professors invited me to publish some of my work on the Goddard Blog along with their own writings and some of the incredible talents of alums and current students.
Yet another poem has been published in The Canary this month by Hip Pocket Press. The editor, Gail Entrekin, has been fabulous to me, and I will be eternally grateful. You don't want to miss reading some of the back issues of this journal if you are a fan of poetry and prose.
Last, but certainly not least, I am linking you to an old article in the Lynchburg News and Advance about the Art Box move to its new location, because this is where you can find the new Art on 12th Studios and Galleries. I rent studio number one with my business partner, Terri Miller. We will be having our first opening to the public on Sunday, April 18th from 2-4:30 pm.
The paintings I chose to share are a couple of my new works in progress, which have been created since moving into my fabulous new space on January 1st of this year. We are excited to finally be officially opening the renovated upstairs spaces to the public. We being myself and a dozen other artists living and working in Lynchburg.
If you live in the area, come on down to the new Art Box on the corner of Grace and 12th Street in downtown Lynchburg, and check out all the great stuff Anne has for sale. Sign up for some of the ongoing classes by several resident artists in a number of media, and by all means, wander upstairs and visit the artists at work. We look forward to seeing you!
Today, I was supposed to be driving to Vermont for my grad school residency. Romantically, I thought it would be lovely to go to Vermont in February. I am always reminded of Bing Crosby and Danny Kay. "Vermont must be lovely this time of year, all that snow and all." I mean lets face it, we never get any snow down here in Forest, Virginia. Oh, the mountains get snow, but here in the valley we get maybe one good snow a year if that. I never dreamed that I would be going to Vermont to get away from the snow. Jeez.
Now, with the promise of Plainfield's mild winter weather (balmy 22 and very little snow on the ground), I can't get to Vermont no matter what I try. Why? Because there may not be snow in Vermont, but there's so much freaking snow in every state between here and there that most of the interstates are closed and all of the airports in the north east as far west as Chicago don't plan on flying any time soon.
Instead, I am stuck in my house, which thankfully has heat and electricity (don't think I'm not grateful), and I must wait until the snow stops. We have not seen green grass for the whole winter. It is buried under several feet of snow. The wind is blowing so hard out there that it sounds like it will tear the roof off, and even the inches of ice on top is not stopping the drift. The garage door is frozen closed, and I might as well move back to northern Indiana.
So, in the interest of fighting the winter blues, I would like to share a few pictures from my recent cruise of the Caribbean. We dubbed the vacation the "Mom and Me 2010 Cruise." My two girlfriends and all of our mothers went with me on the Carnival Legend for all kinds of fun in the sun. Our stops? Grand Caymans, Cozumel, Belize, and Roatan in the Honduras. It was fabulous. Perhaps the sunny images will lend some warmth to our frigid winter hearts...
First, we have the fabulous stingrays of our stingray encounter in Grand Caymans.
The face of the Tulum Ruins in Mexico
Can you find the hidden Iguana?
Mexican crab in Playa del Carmen.
The view from the top of Altan-Ha Temple in Belize
Oh I loved the Voracious Insect Bats in Belize too!
The month of me was spectacular, perhaps a bit too good since it translated into my extended vacation from blogging and writing anything beyond my research for graduate school. Actually, the real excuse is a heavy paper dealing with ethics in the making, valuation, and sale of art. This is a subject which brings up horrible memories of a controversial time at Randolph College. I have been reticent to say anything about it for reasons I won't go into here. Suffice it to say, it has been a difficult, complex, and heart wrenching task of reliving an unpleasant past. Although the writing of it is important to my graduate work, and I would not shirk its necessity, it has taken a bit of the joy out of writing for me in the process. Now that the semester is over, and the initial draft is complete, I begin to see a light at the end of the tunnel. Perhaps when I finish my paper, I'll be less cryptic and share my feelings on the events and the subject here. Right now, I am ready to walk away from the whole thing and enjoy my extended vacation. On that note, I leave today for a cruise of the Caribbean. Woohoo!
Anyway, instead of talking about ethics, the environment, and art, lets talk about me. Specifically, the month of me. I promised I would tell you all about it, and then I got selfish and took several months off. I am prone to selfish acts. I'll admit it. Anyway, the month of me was spectacular and I think I may have had the best fortieth birthday of anyone on record in the history of humanity. I'm not even sure I remember everything I did during the month, but the highlights were exceptional.
I started out with a trip to Washington, D.C. to visit the National Gallery and the Hirshorne museum. We stayed at the Marriott Courtyard right beside the National Portrait Gallery. Apart from the typical frustration of driving in the convoluted streets of that city and the ridiculous cost of parking, we had a fabulous time walking the streets, enjoying art, eating great food. I got spectacular photos. My favorite is of the amazing sculpture pictured above by Ron Mueck at the Hirshorne and the New York fan who was equally awed by it.
Next was the highlight of my month, Shakori Hills music festival and an entire weekend with many of my dearest friends camping, enjoying and making music, and dancing till our feet ached. My lovely zoo peeps all came out to help me celebrate, as did my partner in crime and art making, Terri, who drove all the way from Lynchburg with an injured back to join the mayhem. She was a great sport! Nikki baked me a cow cake which made me laugh and laugh. Another story for another time. Pete dressed me up like a princess in tiara and jewels, to which Terri added a really cool scepter that lit up and played magical sounds. We sat around camp fires, listened to fantastic music and generally laughed until our sides ached.
But, I haven't even gotten started. My dear friends Kimmy and David cooked up some serious surprises for me along with the rest of my friends in Donna the Buffalo, the best band in the world. So, not only did they bring me fun decorations for the campsite and lovely gifts both in the bag and in their presence, they also had my favorite songs added to the Saturday night set list, dedicated a special version of my all-time favorite song, Conscious Evolution, to me and had my all-time favorite guitarist, Jeb Puryear, wish me a happy birthday, not once, but twice during the show. Wow! I was really floored. Now, you'd think the month of me would end there. I mean, how much more fun can one girl have? Oh, I haven't even gotten started.
After Donna ended what I now think of as my birthday set, we all waltzed on over to the dance tent to dance for several more hours to my second favorite band in the whole world, The Duhks. Maybe it was just the rosy glow of my party, although I really didn't drink that much, so I don't think so, but I feel like that particular set was one of the best I have seen by this talented band. I lost my magical scepter at some point during the show, but the magic seemed to stay with me regardless.
After, Leonard and several of my friends in the band hung out and closed down the dance tent. Then Christian, the drummer, David, and Kimmy and I ended up finished out to rest of the night, literally, laughing until the sun came up over at their campsite. I'm fairly certain the laughter alone lifted several years off my life. So, my actual birthday party ended with three dear friends and partners in mayhem watching the sun come up over the sheep field and wondering at the manliness of those big-boy sheep. They are really quite spectacular in ways we shouldn't discuss here.
As it turns out, the scepter went on to have its own fabulous party and found the perfect home away from me. Apparently, my friend Kath's daughters found it and had all kinds of fun playing with it until they tried brandishing it over the guy in the chicken suit who drives the hay ride tractors around the park. I guess they were trying to turn him into a frog. It didn't work, but he ended up with the magical instrument of birthday power and carried it around the rest of the weekend threatening the unruly children with it. I kept hearing the squeals of delight that followed it's funny electronic sounds, and I figured it was right where it belonged, spreading the magic of joy and laughter throughout the park.
But, fear not. I was still not without its magical powers because the magical fun did not end with the party, as one might expect. No the next day, after one short hour of sleep, as the campers began to rise from their warm sleeping bags, I woke unable to fall back to sleep. Feeling bleary, I opted for a shower and some coffee. So, I dragged myself out of bed, and took care of business. Once I had coffee in hand, I was beginning to feel mildly human again as the sounds of Keith Secola drifted across the main stage field with the unmistakable guitar riffs of Jeb Puryear wandering along the scale. Like a bee to honey, I followed the music and stood near the stage drinking in the sounds, letting the music wake me up.
Perhaps five minutes passed before I was being pulled by one of my herd friends, Gail, towards the stage steps, and led right up onto the stage to become one of the fry bread backup singers for the band. Suddenly, I am on stage directly in front of Jeb with a microphone in front of me singing. How did this happen? I had to laugh. So, I sang along, and danced and generally tried to make myself smaller since I figured most people would rather see Jeb play his guitar than me dancing around and pretending to be a professional singer. Still, it was amazing, a new perspective on the festival and perhaps one of the most fun things I've ever done at Shakori Hills. Thanks Keith. If you ever need a full-time singer, look me up.
Oh, and I cannot forget to mention the best dancing at Shakori every year in the dance tent when Preston Frank takes the stage. That man knows how to play some Zydeco. Put him together with Donna the Buffalo as his band, and you have some of the finest dance music ever played. So, we danced and we danced and we danced for the rest of the day.
Although the weekend was swiftly drawing to a close, I still had one more wonderful thing to come. David's son Riley, who is twelve, decided he wanted to play the drums with his dad's band for the first time during the Friends of Donna the Buffalo ritual closing concert of the festival. Can I tell you, he rocked the house. The musical talent in that family will indeed live on in Riley McCracken. I'm personally looking forward to many years as one of his groupies. We were all very impressed, including Tara, and I get the sense she does not impress easily. Christian Dugas of the Duhks also sang a lovely ballad, but not from his comfort zone behind the drums, but rather in front of the band. Although he seemed a bit nervous about it before the fact, he was impressively composed onstage and sang a hauntingly lovely song for the crowd. It was a spectacular birthday party to be sure. Thanks go out to all my fabulous friends and family who made my birthday one to remember. I love you all!
Photos appear courtesy of Bill Davis. Thanks Bill!
So, this month I turn forty. I'm actually rather excited about it, not at all freaking out like I did when I turned thirty. This time, I feel like I'm entering the best years of my life. Anyway, as a gift to myself, the month of October has been designated the month of me. This year, I'm doing it up in a big way. Wait until you hear about all the stuff I have planned to celebrate. I'll be blogging about it as I go. After the really shitty end to the month of September, things can only go up from here.
You see, Mom was reading the paper a few nights back, and there in the obits was a photo of one of our dearest friends, Bill Spruill. This man was a constant in our lives, one of those people who could show up unannounced, let himself in the house, and make himself right at home. One of those people you hoped would do just that. Every time he showed up, the world seemed a little bit brighter. Maybe this was because, like the photos, he was always wide open, always laughing, always so full of life. I don't even have a picture where he isn't grinning, head thrown back, eyes all squinted. And, most every picture of him also means everyone else around him is laughing too like the picture above. I cannot believe he's gone.
So, today, I begin the month of me at his memorial paying my respects to one of my favorite people. This might sound a bad way to start the month, but here's the thing. I plan to make a promise to Bill today to live my life as he lived his, like every day was the most important, like the present is all I have , so I'd best make the most of it. Then, after his memorial, Mom and I will take off for DC. We will wake our friend tonight with a fabulous meal in some swanky restaurant, perhaps enjoy their best champagne, raise a glass to him, and tomorrow we will hit the art museums, maybe shop in the village. Bill would have loved that. He would have joined us and soaked up every second. Although I will miss him terribly, its a comfort to know he'll be smiling down on us where ever we go.
Happy trails Bill! May your journey be sweet, and may you see all the things you missed down here on earth. I love you and I'll miss you! Until we meet again...
To borrow a title from Kathy Mattea, I'm sure those who read me are wondering what the heck happened. Well, perhaps after reading the last post about Goddard and my entrance into graduate school they might have a clue, but still. I have been bad about sitting down to blog. I have missed it and most of my writing terribly. Holding down a part-time job, running a pet sitting business, painting commissioned works, and freelance writing all four was a bit too much. The part-time job had to go. I worked my last days there just last week. That gives me twenty hours of my life back. It may not seem like much, but you'd be surprised. Lately, whenever I have a moment free, I find myself up on the parkway taking photos of the monarch migration and wishing them a safe journey and a safe haven to return to in Mexico, knowing full well both are improbable at best, but it never hurts to put the positive energy forward. The photos included are from these forays onto the Blue Ridge Parkway. The two below are called Coexistence One and Coexistence Two.
I love my pet sitting gig, most of the time, but after this summer, I have to admit I'm glad the traveling season is slowing down a bit now, for others anyway. It will be picking up for me. I have booked a trip to DC and to NYC both to look at the galleries and museum shows. It's such a hardship having to travel to the city to look at art. I don't know how I'll survive this graduate school gig. As a result, I will spend my fortieth birthday in one of my favorite cities on earth, New York. Mom got us a hotel five miles from Manhatten, basically across one of the bridges and several blocks from MOMA. To all you Shakori Hills peeps, never fear, my actual birthday is the week after the festival, so I WILL be celebrating at both locations this year. After forty years, I think I deserve a double whammy. This promises to be a great birthday.
Anyhow, that sums up most of the news for me, oh except I forgot to mention one tiny little thing. My poems have now been published. One in a book called Watermarks that is for sale by the Maier Museum of Art, and the other by Hip Pocket Press in the Canary. You can read that one here, and feel free to pass the link along to your friends. I hope you enjoy and promise to try and return to the regularly scheduled blogging program.
Well peeps, the time is here and I am so stoked I can barely see straight. I leave ultra early in the morning on Saturday for the long drive to Atlanta and my long awaited internship with the fabulous artist Pam Longobardi. We met quite serendipitously while I was working an internship for my undergraduate studies at The Maier Museum of Art. I walked into the room to help hang the show which was focused on artists addressing environmental issues, to find Pam busily pinning to the wall small pieces of colorful, plastic trash she had collected off of South Point Beach on the Big Island of Hawaii to create an eye color test chart that read Dead C in its center. I happened to be wearing a necklace I had created from beach glass collected off that very same beach. We bonded instantly over our mutual love of Hawaii, the ocean, and all things environmental. Now, several years later, after Pam and her wonderful Drifter's Project have been shown all over the world (pictured here at the Art Life Gallery in Venice), and I have dutifully continued trudging through school hoping to learn how to create such amazing and inspired environmental art works as Pam, I have been given the incredible opportunity to work with her on her latest installation called Material Drift in the Sandler Hudson Gallery Atlanta next week. So, in honor of this exciting moment, I have copied the link to my article on Pam's upcoming show recently published at Got2BeGreen. It has all the details on Material Drift opening May 21st in Atlanta. I hope to see some of you there. Thanks to Pam for providing this opportunity and the photo of her work.
