I thank my mother, Florence Frueh, for her stories and her love.
I woke up crying in my parents' house. I was remembering a dream. I sat in an airplane with my mother and I said, "My mother is not a flight attendant." I rode in a cab, then a limo, leaving without my grandmother. But I was holding her anyway, my hand on her white head, my wrist sparkling with the diamond watch she often wore. I asked someone, "Will the airline pay for a bus ticket to Green Bay?"
At 6 A.M. I woke up again and birds were singing. I wondered, Is Green Bay death, or eternal life?
In May Stevens Alice in the Garden ( 1989), the artist's mother, Alice, clothed in white, forearms and hands, knees, legs, and feet bare, sits in a field where stroke upon stroke of grassy colors seem to ripple, like a sea of immeasurable and horrifying depth. Though sunlight or supernatural radiance illuminates the garden, shadowy undercurrents negate any absolute connotation of Elysian fields. I see my dream's Green Bay, in which Alice, a radiant ghost with an androgynous face, wide hips, broad lap, and thick knees and legs, is monumental, because of the painting's scale, 7' x 10', and because of her glowing presence and self-absorption.