The other day, in front of our local market, I met a compelling woman with eyes I could not avert. As she told her story about being a single mom, like me, a widow, unlike me, and a survivor, political refugee, and one persecuted for her beliefs… very unlike me, I was most moved as she described how her husband was dragged away in front of her eyes… never to return… shot dead.

I began the black paintings not long after the world trade towers fell. During this dark time of our recent history, I heard on the radio a story about the Chinese cultural revolution. At this time in China, people would disappear. Their families feared the worst. Months later, sometimes years later, the families would receive an official-looking envelope and inside would find a bill from the communist party… for 26cents. The price of the bullet.

That was the first completed black piece. Years passed. I lived in the mountains. I tried to forget. But last winter was the dark night of the soul… again. All of my lyrical, pastel mountain paintings seemed so incomplete, so false. In one fell swoop, I began rubbing out the incongruities of the work. I rubbed and rubbed. I felt like a bootblack. I felt like a charwoman. I felt like the shoeshine boy and began whistling. The paintings began to reveal some hidden patina that seemed far more appropriate for our time. The mixture of lampblack and oil and wax and spit harkened back to the familiar smells and tactility of my past in Oklahoma. Being a young wife. Visiting my young geologist husband on sight as a well would come in. Gushing.