It Takes A Level Of Creative Depression

New Yorkers Have A Delightfully Narcissistic Habit Of Assuming That If They're Not Conscious Of A Scene, It Doesn't Exist.

I'm A Summer Baby, So I Usually Have My Birthday As A Good Summer Memory.

The Queen Of Crafts Herself, Martha Stewart, And I Have The Same Birthday. I Prefer To Think It's The Glue-gun Wielding, Perfect-tart-producing Martha And Not The Copper Pan-throwing, Jail-going Martha. But I Suppose If I Am Going To Share A Calendar Square With Some Of Martha, I Have To Share It With All Of Martha.

A Human Being Can Spend Only So Much Time Outside Her Comfort Zone Before She Realizes She Is Still Tethered To It.

For A Long Time I Wanted To Draw, But I Could Never Get The Proportions Right. My Still Life Sketches Were The Artistic Equivalent Of Someone Who Has Misjudged The Space Constraints Of A Postcard, The Handwriting Shrinking Uncomfortably At The Bottom.