My gardens are important to me. They’re a type of art themselves, and they’re also a gallery for conventional artwork. Plus: green.
In winter, I work on the inside of my house. It was built in 1905, and it and the gardens, and the books I write will be my legacy. It’s a strange thing to consider, “legacy.” I don’t have children. A long time ago I had a son who died when he was less than a year old. Now, today, I have gardens. And art. And words. And love.







