The Ungraspable, Uncomfortable, Inconceivable, Unacceptable, Ineffable Untenable Fragrance of Violets...the big question is, what are the nature and demands of forgiveness, and how do you know who must forgive whom, and when, and how? This is not just a memoir. It is a complex saga that has morphed into a trilogy with a sequel. I kept on writing as the world moved onward, replete with meteorological, economic, political, societal changes creating a background noise, a magnetic force that enveloped, encompassed, consumed the rest. I was told that I needed to choose a theme to focus on. Less is more, everyone said, a mantra I had avoided all of my adult life. I am a more is more kind of person, there is no escaping this truth. It is evident in my art, in my home, in my garden. In my family. In the entirety of my life. My art, my studio, my gallery, even my home have been critiqued by some as worthless, untenable, because they are so filled, so encrusted with stuff. And yet, I have been successful. I have persevered, continued with art forms that give me great pleasure, and fought the mighty dragon of minimalism, and managed to survive in the art world. So here's the thing. I have this vision of my story as it is; my last and most important work of art that is comprised of all the details of my life, colored, textured cross threads woven into the woof and warp of a carefully constructed rich complex tapestry. I don't have one simple story, a memory of a period in time, a problem solved. I cannot write a simple memoir; what I have is a saga. The very fact of the interaction, the conflict between all of these disparate elements is the heart and soul of the story, its life force. What it really appears to be is an anthology of interwoven novellas, essays, thoughts, memories... Maybe it will eventually be unreadable, a tree in a forest that fell, sound and motion that no one was there to experience; a huge, deep infinite, tangled forest, too many trees, a situation that makes exploration impossible, a lengthy and cumbersome tome. Does this matter? As long as it is recorded, I can rest easy. One friend has told me I must decide whether I want to write an all encompassing story for my own personal satisfaction or a more marketable endeavor for popular consumption. I ask myself if these are mutually exclusive. So where do I begin? With love, faith, marriage, children, art, law, loss, recovery? Therein lies the rub. Now, having reached the entrance to my eighth decade, it seems as good a place as any to begin as well as end the tale, for chances are, I won't be here to update those last few chapters, and all that is going to be resolved, already is, and that which won't be, will not change. So I begin today, in 2009, introduce myself at this moment in time without giving away the story, and then continue with the source of all adversity, the first domino that falls against all the others, one by one, until they are all knocked down, lying on the ground, motionless.