Rhode Island School of Design

A weekend filled with the knowing and laugher that comes with a best friend, no matter how many years pass. A final breakfast at the Old Court next to a mother and her excited and nervous new RISD student daughter. A little time in the morning before I needed to get in the car and start driving West, just enough time for a walk through the old school grounds.

The oldest church in Rhode Island reflects on the skeleton of a critter in the window of the Nature Lab. The patch of grass near the dorms, perfect for the rare combination of a break and a sunny day, the lion made of tiles, Geoff's, a favorite for a sandwich with celery salt and a Dr. Brown's black cherry soda.

I loved RISD. I wanted to major in everything. We were encouraged to think big and to draw big. Little methods from high school art classes, like drawing a frame around the edge of your paper in pencil or making your drawing entirely out of dots, were tossed aside for charcoal swept across 24x36 newsprint pads. Whether goth or metalhead or fashionista, we all wore black. Our night clothes were our day clothes and smudges of charcoal did not show up.


Art history seemed old and boring to me then, flowers in textiles had already been done. I turned to drawing car engines and created a line of fabrics with car parts as the motif. I cut fringe into my graduation gown and wore a black patent leather mini dress underneath. It was hard earned and exciting, but scary to graduate. At 21, without the borders of RISD, I didn't know where I was in space. How confusing it was that college education, talent, and drive didn't directly correlate to employment.


I couldn't have known then that, in the life of an artist, art school was just one aspect, one layer. Like a screen print, you start with a big picture in your mind, attend to each layer, and wait for your vision to emerge.