I know that 'Black Place' Georgia O’Keefe painted - not the one in New Mexico. I’ve been there. That day, at the Whitney, was a flashback to the scariest place I've ever been. Georgia painted canvas after canvas of haunting dark images of her nervous breakdown. Where once she embodied vibrant happy flowers, now in that room, on that day, she's filled with dark canyons. On that day, I saw a familiar friend. Georgia had nearly fallen into that endless cavern beneath valleys of coal and grays. She had seen it firsthand, I know. What once delighted her senses vanished. She slipped, barely able to hold onto a crumbling shale face with flimsy fingernails, exhausted in that treacherous terrain. Sliding down deeper, cut up, unable to find a place to hold onto, terrified; no signs pointing the way home. Suspended, black isolation.

That room, on that day, held out a life preserver - where the seas once threatened to drown me. Along the streets of Manhattan, a shadow loomed in the distance. He was there. He tried to push me down like a schoolyard bully. He stalked me, tried to rob me, bam, bam- beat me down into a soppy puddle. Ha! This bully underestimated me. You are nothing more than a grain of sand between my toes, easily washed away and barely bothersome. What a fool. Poor, sad dragon. I pity you dragon. Your flames are nothing more than a whisper of smoke. You are small and pathetic now. You are nothing more than a lizard I can crush with just one brush of my foot. You should fear me dragon!