Here’s to the fathers who are artists.
And to the fathers who raise healthy, informed artists who make the world a better place.
To My Dad
Neil Stanfield’s love of animals has led him to feed, neuter, and spay the feral cats in downtown Oklahoma City for two decades. Just don’t ask to put anything in his trunk because it’s full of cat food.
Who loves history and culture and encouraged this curiosity of the world for me.
Who paid for all of my extracurricular art lessons that Mom found for me.
Who praised my art.
Who paid for my undergraduate and graduate degrees in art history, even when I didn’t know what in the world I was going to do with them.
Me at the Musée Rodin in Paris. 1989. Thanks, Dad!
Who sent me to France for two weeks while
Here’s to the mothers who are artists. And to the mothers who raise healthy, informed artists who make the world a better place. To My Mom . . . Who is forgiven for not taking me to museums because she didn’t want me to misbehave in public. (She was probably right.)
Sometimes we grow out of art that isn’t our own. Our tastes change. Or we were gifted a piece by a generous artists, but it’s not really “us” or it doesn’t fit in our home or with our aesthetic.
Cheers to those who look forward my recipe for Bert’s Eggnog each year! I’m a little like Susan Stamberg who annually recites her cranberry relish recipe on NPR and, despite its ghastly Pepto-Bismol coloring, swears it’s delicious. (I’ve had it and beg to differ!) Anyhoo . . . I PROMISE my eggnog recipe is the nectar of the gods and goddesses.
Did you ever know in advance what your Christmas presents were? Confession: I knew every year of my youth. And it didn’t happen honestly. I figured out where Mom hid all of our gifts before they had bows on them. As soon as she discovered I knew of her hiding place, she found another hiding place and then another.