In preparing for a career as an artist, the first and most fortunate event of my childhood was to be born into a calm, orderly home to loving and engaged parents. Because both my sedate, cerebral mother and my humorous, quick-witted father respected others and one another, they also respected me. Neither one would correct my drawings or enter my light-filled playroom without knocking — uninterrupted imagination space for a child was of the highest priority. There, where artwork covered the small tables, my mother always asked if a piece could be placed in an album or shared with relatives, while my father got such a kick out of those colorful early scribbles he would make up stories about the wild characters hiding inside them. Those weren’t simply random scribbles: By age 2, serious research was underway on creatures — primarily ants — populating our magical backyard.
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