I need great swaths of solitude. I spend a great deal of time looking for my glasses. My favorite color is blue.

My collections include rocks, because they remember the beginning of the earth; sticks, because they can tell stories; bird nests, because they are small homes.

I have forty-nine chairs in my house, not including the one at the upholsterer’s shop and not including couches, porch stuff, stools, folding things.

That sterling silver handmade flute mostly sits silent nowadays.  Bach is mu utmost desirable choice of composer.

My children, grown, think I am a lunatic, but love to borrow my things.  The outside of my 1888 house has been painted forest green with brilliant white trim.  My brother jerry grows hot peppers, papayas, and collard greens in the front yard.

Every year I find myself once again in England, but now I have fallen desperately for the Isle of Skye in the Inner Hebrides.  Venice would be my next happy place to die.

The compulsion to keep a journal is a curse.

I love old furniture, castles, moonstones, needlepoint, eating in bed, crossword puzzles, vodka, and most of all books.  I love the idea of quantum physics.  I would like to have a zebra in my yard.  I would like to see the pyramids.

About painting: it is the ACT rather than the ART of painting that consumes me.  The scrubbing, scratching, daubing, stroking of color, one next to another, is endlessly exciting.  This fascination will surely last me all my life.  What I want in a painting is beauty and mystery, and that frisson of the aesthetic experience.

Unfortunately, I am a Libra.  I say I believe in ghosts when one brushes by, then I quickly leap to the other side of the scale and say, “Oh, you can’t be sure.”