The Journey
I grew up in a tiny hamlet in the endless prairies of Alberta, Canada. I was the only daughter of the most practical father one could imagine. My dad fled Hungary and Soviet occupation when he was only 12. After time alone in an Austrian refugee camp, he joined extended family in Canada. His early experiences led to a life of deep practicality and conservation, always simplifying and conserving. My childhood was one of simple, happy memories, but my dad had little patience for art. Art was not an essential need.
My mom was a voracious reader, and on our trips to the city bookstore, we would detour to the fabric shop and buy crisp ribbon or beads for a new creation. I would watch my grandmother patiently cut her paper toile projects and marvel at how she translated layers of flat paper photos into three-dimensional delicate art. She showed me how something flat can be built up and given strength and depth, and I always think of that in my glasswork.
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