My aunt Kristina (Tinka for short) was murdered by her lover, in 1954, at the age of 35. Her image, one of my earliest memories, lingers crisp and amazingly accurate, after all these years. One winter day, her last winter, she was standing in our living room, warming her back against the tall, coal burning, ceramic tile stove. I remember her against the shiny, ornate tiles. She was wearing a short fox coat and an ankle length narrow skirt. She had seamed silk stockings and golden brown leather high heel shoes. Her hat was bright green, with a feather on one side. She was eating warm popcorn, picking each peace slowly with her long, perfectly manicured fingernails, polished in shiny red. (Mother is amazed, to this day, that I remember this image so clearly.) I was not even four.
Aunt Tinka was the only person in our family that exhibited creativity and artistic talent. The oldest child of my grandparents, she was sent, at barely sixteen, to a private school for seamstresses. This was at her insistence and grandfather couldn’t resist. His daughter would be a professional woman, not a housewife. The time was before WWII, and my grandfather's bankruptcy.
My mother saved everything. Lengths of string too long to throw away, too short to be immediately useful; twist ties from bread bags; aluminum foil good enough to be reused. While cleaning out her house in preparation to sell it, I came across these baby teeth, a record of my childhood and that of my 3 siblings.
It was In the early go-go 90s, I had lost my 'dream job' (long story) and arrived in a job which was a far cry from anything I ever imagined I would be doing-- The intensity of long hours nearly immobile in a chair with my brain wired into the computer--the concentration only broken with the occasional yelling by my boss to work harder and faster..or some sort of variation on random negative statements-- all this and more, started to take its toll only weeks after I started the job. I knew for my physical and mental well-being, I needed to get out during the lunch hour and walk, walk, walk, to clear my mind. As I walked, everyday I began finding these rusted , twisted wires, which mirrored my personal suffering. I began picking them up, and delighted in finding often finding 2 or 3 a day. They were coming from the construction sites of the area which was undergoing gentrification. I began relating to each wire I found. First, as my own sorry state of being in a job which was twisting my brain to places which are difficult to describe. But as the months passed I realized how these bent, rusted, discarded found wires went beyond me. They gave me time to reflect on others--the wires were the homeless, the forgotten, the discarded in society. Getting outside myself, to the 'other'. Through these wires--Daily my spirt was revived, and I focused on making a change, starting with myself. Those things--once useful, now not needed, but ultimately reclaimed for art. 
I've always had a fascination with insects - when little, it manifested as fear. As an adult and an artist, repulsion has been replaced by awe. Bugs are so beautiful in construction and coloration that Ifind myself capturing and keeping them to examine and occasionly, use in my work.....the attached is a fine example of a life terminated in order to serve my pleasure.
