 | She was born with a blue and white sticker on her forehead proclaiming: Future Artist. When she was one or two, she inhaled paint thinner and had to sleep overnight in an airtent at Corning Hospital. When she was three or four, she danced in the living room to her favorite music, either Powaqqatsi or Rite of Spring. When she was five or six, she sang singsongingly almost nonstop and wore skirts with motorcycles and rainbows on them.
When she was seven or eight, she built cities with her toys complete with class structures. When she was nine or ten, she experienced the pros and cons of belting out songs about altruism. When she was eleven or twelve, she could sustain meta-hysterical-laughter for hours. When she was thirteen or fourteen, she danced to 1950's advertising jingles in satin pants. When she was fifteen or sixteen, she stared longingly at the National Gallery. | When she was seventeen or eighteen, she spent much of the day in one room with her watercolors, favorite brush, and mix tape after mix tape. When she was nineteen or twenty, she carefully labeled hundreds of photos and slides for legend-preservation purposes. When she was twenty-one or twenty-two, she decided it was best to stare at balance sheets and tiny strands of beads instead.
When she was twenty-three or twenty-four, she toured the countryside and various landscapes of her heart and moved to Portland, OR. When she was twenty-five or twenty-six, she fell in love with gesamtkunstwerk. When she was twenty-seven or twenty-eight, with a BB gun in one hand and a No. 12 bright in the other, she invented and attended L'Université des Musées. When she was twenty-nine, she communicated almost solely through pyrotechnics and laser shows. |
