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With trembling fingers in the solitude of my studio I shaped wet paper mache into this first mask, sculpted over a plaster gauze form of my face. A contorted, angry face began to come to life. What was happening? I only knew that fear was driving my silent work—fear and exhilaration. There was no other sound but the rhythmic pounding of my heartbeat as flames leapt into existence at the mere touch of my hands, flames and jagged teeth of broken glass. Into the grimacing mouth I slid a stiletto tongue. Could I really tell this much truth? The honesty of the mask had a life of its own. The mask had its own uncompromising visual language. This was not some abstraction. This was me—my rage unmasked!

In early human communities, mask making and dancing wearing masks were sacred practices. The mask literally embodied spirits in nature and the power of deities and demons brought to life through ritual and story. I know this power. My masks tell my stories and the stories of my time. They reveal our gods and monsters. Their stories are as contemporary as today’s newspaper headlines and ancient as the first people to gather around a fire for warmth or to gather together in opposing armies to kill each other in the name of their gods. A TRILOGY OF MASKS

Magic happens. When the mask I am working on comes into juxtaposition with life events, art and life oscillate. The energy is so high that at a point in the work, life and art merge and I become dumbstruck, completely in awe at the power of this synchronicity. With my first mask and second and third this happened. And at critical moments in my life this continues to happen. Then the spirit of the mask is inevitably archetypal.

My dad was going crazy. Seventy-four years old, a lifelong alcoholic, and he was losing his mind. The doctors had a name for it—-"Alzheimer’s". However, he was not diagnosed until he had twice escaped the unfamiliar sounds, smells, routine and caretakers of the rest home we had found for him near where I lived in Berkeley . Two times the police recaptured him. The first time he was delivered to my doorstep by a friendly officer who had found the address on dad’s I.D. bracelet. The second time he was taken to Alta Bates emergency room on a "5150", a danger to himself and other people, and hospitalized. The rest home wouldn’t take him back. He had no money. We had no money to care for him. What does this have to do with my first mask? Everything. I began my mask of rage at the beginning of my father’s descent into hell. The spirit of the mask prepared me for what was to come, becoming my healer, guide and teacher through the nightmare of letting go of the father I had never had. As I was painting red, yellow and orange onto sculpted flames, breaking glass into teeth, raging energy pulsating through my body, my heart began to soften and break. I saw a mouth open in soundless grief inside a mouth open in soundless grief. My father was dying and there was absolutely nothing I could do to save him. We were out of time in this lifetime. The second mask was born.

In groaning too deep for words, I gave form and substance to my grief. With loving hands I created a death mask. The shards of glass that had embodied primal rage became transformed into a crown of thorns or a halo depending upon how it caught the light. Paradox upon paradox. I was letting go as my father was dying.

After his death the third mask emerged, a phoenix rising from the ashes of my dad’s life. It’s wings were made of military documents from dad’s meager store of mementos. While in training to become a pilot in WWII, he had been court martialed for participating in a dangerous, unauthorized maneuver that almost cost him his life and the life of his copilot. He was grounded for the duration of the war. We never had a conversation about this while he was alive, but it must have been important to him because he had kept the record of his court martial all those years. In an intimate dialogue with the pieces of his history, I was learning the language of symbolism and the healing power of transformation. I literally made wings for him out of the record of his failure. I lined the mask with a letter he had written to my grandmother in which he mentioned baby me. It is precious beyond words. And the ashes at the base of the mask are my father’s. Is this permissible? I only know that it had to be. This trilogy of masks and a performance piece entitled, "Dancing on My Father’s Grave" were the first of my synchronicities in mask making. I now know that at critical times, the ritual of the mask will guide me. I am learning to trust this healing and transforming magic.