When I was discharged, I walked home and picked up some little black dolls behind an old building, took them home, and made that Little Drummer Boy piece. After that, I kept walking and finding stuff and making tilings out of it. I had considered making things before, but there never was any time for it. I was glad to try to let my head relax and come up with different ideas. I knew that my depression, if I allowed it to, could take complete control. I thought I knew how to control it by making paintings that got the feeling out of me, mostly explosive, mostly angry. Most of my first paintings were about depression. Or about the concentration camp. After I visited it, I should have been able to leave those thoughts behind. I had been a nurse, had seen suffering and death, but those thoughts of that massacre never left me. They stay with you. You just want to put a bomb in your head and blow those thoughts out.
