At age twenty-two, stocking shelves in the back of a office supply store, some days after work, I would race to a pond hidden in the woods outside of town to relax for a little while floating around just before sunset as the air began to cool, not realizing there'd be many days in the future when I'd wish I could return.

These pears sat on the table one bright day, silhouetted against the kitchen window and the red clay drive in front of the house. Those days, I sometimes paged through a Thesaurus playing with words and phrases, then I typed them up as poetry. I aspired to produce series' of signed, numbered fine prints for sale from a catalog, esteemed and sold by galleries and decorators. I had only to be discovered by someone magically overwhelmed and capable of recognizing the marketing opportunity my work presented. Apparently, there are lots of other artists with the same idea...