I hate to write the first line of a disgraceful ditty that I probably said more than once with other girls when I was a fourth or fifth grader. I was ashamed to say it, I knew it was wrong, and yet I did, which is probably the case with all wrongdoing.
Blessed as I always am in my work, I’ve discovered a possible new topic for a biography in the life of the British/American painter, Dorothy Brett.
Now that girls are not routinely instructed in fear—of mice, spiders, snakes, and the unknown—our native courage is much in evidence.
Obsessions always interest me having hosted several of them with various results but I doubt that any of mine have shared the intensity with which Jews at the conclusion of Passover all over the world shout, “Next year in Jerusalem!” the dynamite that powers the unending war to erase Palestine.
Girls need to learn to play rough, a lesson we may be trying to forget today with our return as mothers and grandmothers to a relentless obsession with our female offsprings’ looks.
I’ve been asked many times the last few months what can be done to support Hopscotch. What are your ideas for how Hopscotch could be used?
When Woodstock happened in 1969, I was deep in my baby-making and raising years with a young son and two more soon to arrive, and if I’d seen this photograph I would have been horrified.
Having long learned… the effect of art created by women on the lives of other women… I decided to design a foundation that would support women artists in Kentucky working as feminists for social change.
Now that I’ve placed the issues around saving Hopscotch in the hands of my very competent attorneys, for today a few thoughts about Phillip and Good Friday.
It may seem strange that in the midst of the problems with Hopscotch and the Kentucky Foundation for Women, I’m choosing to write about the Bobwhite Quail. There are two reasons…
