I Think That One's Art Is A

The Men Resent A Woman Getting Any Honour In What They Consider Is Essentially Their Field. Men Painters Mostly Despise Women Painters. So I Have Decided To Stop Squirming, To Throw Any Honour In With Canada And Women.

The House Begins To Be A Home. The Unfamiliar Places Are Beginning To Fold The Familiar Objects Into Their Keeping And To Cozy Them Down. Objects That Swore At Each Other When The Movers Heaved Them Into The New Rooms Have Subsided Into Corners And Sit To Lick Their Feet And Wash Their Faces Like Cats Accepting A New Home.

Last Night I Dreamed That I Came Face To Face With A Picture I Had Done And Forgotten, A Forest Done In Simple Movement, Just Forms Of Trees Moving In Space. That Is The Third Time I Have Seen Pictures In My Dreams, A Glint Of What I Am Striving To Attain.

Writing Is A Strong Easement For Perplexity. My Life Is A Map, Spread Out With All The Rivers And Hills Showing.

As The Woods Are The Same, The Trees Standing In Their Places, The Rocks And The Earth... They Are Always Different Too, As Lights And Shadows And Seasons And Moods Pass Through Them.