In the 1980s, I went through a huge life crisis and marriage breakup. I found a therapist to help me through
a harrowing time. She said that words aren't my primary language, and suggested I go home and draw. Since
I had always drawn representationally, I had no clue what to draw. Soon - one day while I was writing a letter
to my dad - a large, strange image emerged from my hand onto the page. I was stunned and fascinated.
I named this figure Broken Baby, and it seemed to me that she was a guide of sorts, who would lead me through some sort of internal process. Over the next few months, a series of 28 drawings appeared almost effortlessly, all with the same outline as the first. After that, I felt much better, though I couldn't articulate why that was. Here are the images:
