When I need to return home, to get back to square one, I make these little paintings.  I work slowly, getting lost in thin layers of glaze and pigment.  I rub and scrape and dab and pick, like sorting lentils from ashes.  These works are about compulsion and about beauty and about the childhood fantasy of womanhood.  Things I feel bashful about. Yet I find myself returning to them again and again.  They are like magic hand-mirrors.  They are small because they are very private.  They are my secrets.