About the Artist

My mother taught me to draw.  She was a commercial artist in the 1960s and graduated from the Corcoran School of Art in Washington, D.C.

But, armed with the theory that a job should cause suffering, as that proved you were really working, I went into computers, not art.

In 2005, a year after Mom died, I happened across a cat adoption event at a pet store in Redondo Beach, where I was living at the time.  There I met Willow, a beautiful female cat, part Siamese, they said (her blue eyes agreed), and part tortoise-shell.  She was less than a year old, though she had already given birth to a litter of kittens.  She had raised them, and those of her sister (who wasn't up to the job), in an alley in Long Beach.  A shopkeeper gave them milk and food.  She had handled Willow and her sister from when they themselves were kittens.  Willow was quiet (unlike the hissing long-haired Persian kittens in the cage below her) and placidly accepted my love.

But, I made the mistake of renaming her Charlie, which led to a life-time of confusion about her gender; my previous cats had been named Charlie, and I am not really that imaginative.  

The cat rescue lady, who had poofs of hair atop poofs of hair, as if she were trying to emulate an angry and fractal cat, admonished me never to let Willow outside.  But, the day I brought her home to my second floor apartment (unless your index starts in Britain, which means it was a first floor flat), she disappeared!  I called out both her names, but there was silence.  

As she was a silent cat, that didn't necessarily mean much, but one thinks one can read silence (though it always turns out to be your own emotions echoing back) and I read it as the silence of absence.  She must have escaped!  A window or a door left cracked open. Maybe one of the gigantic spiders had escorted her out.  So, outside I went, wailing her names.  But she did not respond.  

Two days went by, and I felt myself a failure, once again.  I had failed my mom when she died, and now this cat, who must have been born soon after Mom's death.  Like my mom, she was gentle, quiet, ladylike and beautiful. I had decided to believe, secretly, that Willow, now Charlie, was my mom, coming back to me.  And immediately upon arrival, she decided, I'm out of here.  

At work (because I could not spend all day wailing her absence, as I am doing now), I called the poofy-haired lady and said, "Willow is gone.  She must have escaped.”   She hissed at me and growled and I hung my head, which she could not see over the phone.  

When I got home from work, she was waiting for me at the door, her hair larger than I remembered it.  I silently let her in, and she yelled at me, never let your cat outside!   She sat down in the poofy recliner, as I suspected she would, as like goes to like, and I sat down on the sofa, and as she admonished me, and I hung my head, I saw emerging from under the poofy recliner...Charlie, formerly Willow!  A stretch, a look around, so casual, and then she hopped up onto the back of the sofa, completely at ease, stepped onto my shoulder, jumped onto my lap, and snuggled up.  

The poofy-haired woman looked aghast.  I looked smug.  It is surprising how quickly one can go from guilty to smug, when a cat snuggles into your lap.  Well, then.  Her hair may not actually have deflated, but her anger did.  Charlie and I bid her good-bye.

Charlie spent all the remaining years, up until October 22, 2019, by my side (at night, it was more on my head).  We got into the habit of her sleeping on my left arm -- not my right arm.  Whenever I tried that upheaval, she would stare at me (it's funny how one can tell a righteous cat is staring at you, even though your eyes are closed) and then, if the correct arrangement weren't made, she would extend a single claw gently into my nostril.  That worked and did not involve any actual pain -- just a strange sensation, really.  If only we could solve all mankind's stupidity by such a measure.  

Because on that day, the vet told me, you have to say good-bye to Charlie.  I can't even think of it now without crying, so I will hurry along.  But where?  To the next paragraph, at any rate.

Oh yes, I forgot why I was writing this biography. It's supposed to "tell the world about your work and the ideas behind it."  There are no ideas behind my work.  There was only Charlie.  

I am not actually working much at all now, as I have decided to be sad.  Was it a decision?  I don't know.  

Where was I?  On the couch.  Alone.  That's where I am now.  Charlie would have been on my lap.  Whenever I sat or lay down, there was Charlie, her blue eyes assessing the jump, and then onto my lap forever-more.  But, forever-more has ended.  

Charlie, formerly Willow.  In Redondo Beach, I was trying out a reed pen, made for me by my artist friend, Arnold Smith, and I thought, I shall draw Charlie.  And though it was just meant to be a doodle, it actually was nice -- it was Charlie!   Because the feeling pleased me, I bought pencils, paper, ink, and kept drawing her.   Eventually, I took one to be framed -- what pretentiousness!  -- and the frame store guy said, this is a nice drawing.  If you make prints, I would like to try selling them.  

So, that's how it started.  Now that Charlie, formerly Willow, is gone, I am not sure it will continue.  But, seeing as how this biography is for my shop, that's probably not the note to close on. 

It seems I have now met the "minimum of 50 words required" rule, which means I can save this profile.  I had started with 11, and even after adding useless adjectives, could only poof it up to 16.  Then I started adding nouns and verbs, and here we are.

Charlie (formerly Willow, formerly lying here on my lap, formerly extending a gentle claw into my nostril, encouraging me to stop being stupid).  And now, an idea?  

She is behind my work.