I was born in Atlanta. The year, 1960. Within that year
dwells my earliest memory-a vision of a woman. I'm looking up at her, my arms
flailing and hands reaching. Glimmer ringly she leans forth. Shiny necklace.
Jeweled, horn rimmed glasses. Red lipstick. I was a newborn creature of
artistic power set upon wanderlust. She, the first thing I remember seeing/feeling/wanting.

By age 3 “she” became manifest in my drawings and coloring.
My understanding of her, this scintillating surface of womanhood, deepened. My
eyes to seek tearing beauty.

I was the young boy standing on the Southeastern Fair midway
staring wide-eyed at hoochiecoochie dancers or tunnelling my way into the bride
and her maidens at family weddings (barricading myself inside white satin, lace
and tulle), or the little kid saddled up to the television screen enthralled
with chiffon drape mavourneens on Lawrence Welk, enamored of widows weeds wore
by Morticia Adams and Lily Munster. Enchanted by the special flicker of Old
Hollywood (Harlow, Dietrich, Davis) then, eventually, (ladies and gentlemen) Cher
and the miraculous Mr. Mackie.

Primary schools was predicated upon artistic achievements. A
personal correspondence with Bob Mackie and Yves St. Laurent when I was 16 led
me to fashion and a Pratt institute scholarship in New York City.

On my first day of college the venerable professor, Madeline
Darling, told the class: “In fashion, one cannot be personal.” It would take me
10 years to understand what she meant by the pronouncement. Within this decade
of designing clothes sold in boutiques and to private customers I became
disenchanted.

Elucidation had finally come as to what Professor Darling
meant. A successful fashion designer must be willing to work with others. I was
not. For me, the creation of a dress, (like a painting) is an auto imperious
solemnity. Forming in MY mind, coursing through MY fingers, and materializing
sacrosanct on MY mannequin, she is done. I refused, “Could you do this in
another color?”. I absolutely would not shorten or lengthen a hemline, and a
bow on the left shoulder - remained on the left.

This attitude is (of course) ridiculously stubborn. But it
proved I was, indeed, too personal/sentimental/poetic for fashion. Tennessee Williams
wrote “Beauty’s a world of its own. It has a Godly license.”

And too Art. For within the borders of my canvas Grace Kelly
never grows old, love letters never yellow, the mode in fashion is always
current - and the bow stays put.

By 1990 my Art had come full circle. I was back where I had
begun as a little boy, drawing pretty ladies wearing pretty dresses.

Having been very successful in representing myself in
Atlanta and South Florida whereby clients purchased and took my Art all over
the world. Particularly the beloved Fashion Sketch. I had at the time the same
time longed for a home (a House home).

By exclusive arrangement with Lewis & Sheron textiles I
found my way home. This House where Art and Heart flower.