In Praise of Ephemeral Glory There is a simple, and unpoetic I suppose, answer to why the first of my Geometric Kimono Suite was named A Morning Glory . No one has asked, perhaps because the flat disks do not look much like Ipomea purpurea, the common morning glory. The inspiration is that growing up the flowers I most admired were both blue. One could be gathered and brought indoors, Centaurea cyanus, the bachelor button, also called cornflower. They were humble flowers found even in vacant lots. I would often gather a fistful of bachelor buttons to present to my mother who would arrange them in an empty milk bottle. The little blue flowers looked lovely, lasting for days. My other favorite, the brilliant blue morning glories, could not be put into a vase. They had no stems. The cornflower and the morning glory are beautiful, simple flowers, but represented opposite ends of the spectrum when it came to fragility. As an adult I grew both flowers near my studio, how coul...

Something Andy Warhol Said I spent my fifteen minutes on handmade paper kimonos and fans shown at galleries run by men who would fall in the first round of a new and deadly affliction. Other galleries also shut their doors long ago, for other reasons. So, my quarter hour slipped away, as it does any way, leaving ghosts of the handmade paper kimonos and fans in the odd museum or on eBay. The art, in small letters, remains in drawers, as old VHS tapes upon a closet shelf. I am transferring my tapes to the Cloud and onto large old-fashioned canvas. Perhaps some curious curator will open a drawer at the Met, or Brooklyn Museum, where my prints snore. There is no iron clad rule that we get but one fifteen minute time slot. It was only something Andy Warhol put into words in 1968.