In the Oakland museum I stood in front of the only work of mine which
they own. Eleanor. Eleanor Roosevelt.
I painted her with a
white background, thick slabs of paint, meant to suggest the White House.
Painted from memory. The trip I took with my Mother and Father when I was about 15.
Washington, DC. Remembered the feeling of power which pervades the city.
Not the rattling energy of New York City. But the invisible daily decisions
vicariously experienced.