Just a brief entry because Ruth and her husband are taking me out to dinner. I promised that I would begin a history about the creation and uses of my studio at Orchard Hill Farm.

It was 1952, a cold winter day, and I was sitting on the same couch I sit on today - reupholstered of course. A fire crackled in the old stone fireplace at Orchard Hill Farm, and the grandfather clock on the stair landing rang in the hour, 11:00 A.M. Rebecca had been after me to do something about the cold second floor of our colonial farm house. I thought that I needed inspiration to goad me into insulating the attic floor because I would have to rip up the old floor boards laid by an nineteenth century ancestor, put the insulating bats between the joists, and reinstall the boards. My future studio was a natural outgrowth of my contemplation, and like a snow drop opening as the last snows of winter melt, the partitioned room at the top of the attic stairs grew and matured naturally in my mind. I even pictured the sign on the future door.

“ Sanctuary.”

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