Art has been a part of my life since I was a child. I was sent to Museum art classes as a child. Every Saturday, I waited for the bus and rode it alone into downtown Manchester, where I transferred to another bus that took me to the Currier Art Gallery and the gray Victorian that housed the school. Life was obviously different then, when a child could embark on a journey of so many miles alone.
It was the early sixties and I was only about seven when I started this adventure. It was like a good science fiction novel, I was taken to another world. I sat on a cold marble floor with other children entranced by Picasso’s Woman Seated in a Chair. Adults may have a problem with cubism, children do not. When your world consists of viewing the world from 3 feet, the undersides of tables become as important and their tops. The view of towering adults is also distorted. Children look up at you and see right into your nose. Add in the emotional elements of love and fear and children have no problem with Picasso. Of course, when you bring home a cubist or surrealist painting done with tempera paint and your parents and grandparents wonder why they are spending good money on art that does not match the sofa or will not look good on the refrigerator. For me, it meant my bedroom was my gallery.