I love you when I forget about me.
Nobody understood The Reoccurring Dream, but after September 11, when we were coerced to do a national duty and go out and shop, surely people could begin to see what I was getting at.
So many things I would have done, but clouds got in my way.
They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.
Augustine, Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath are confessional writers and all three make me sick. I have nothing in common with them.
The coming of the kids hasn’t come out in my art yet.
I’ve got 50 different tunings in the guitar.
The God of the Old Testament is the depiction of evil.
I couldn’t see passion as a bad thing.
My life came down to being a granny and watching a lot of television.
I think I would go further into fine arts, I think, if I were to continue.
I’d had a rough childhood.
I’m a method actress in my songs, which is why it’s hard to sing them.
I wanted to paint in a folk-artist-y way. My heroes were Van Gogh, Gauguin, Matisse, and Rembrandt. I think Picasso is about as a modern as I got. But I incorporated things that they rejected as well as movements that happened later.
My parents told me I’d point to a bed of flowers and say ‘Pink. Pretty,’ before I knew any other words.
I find a lot of poetry to be narcissistic.
I certainly don’t want to be an angry old artist.
I assume there must be some kind of genetic thrust. My two grandmothers were very different, but both of them were frustrated musicians.
Rachmaninoff made a musician out of me. His ‘Rhapsody on a Theme by Paganini’ was the piece that sent me into raptures. It spoke to me. To me, it was a tender entreaty for the misunderstood.
I don’t like to make fluffy little songs, but now I want to make some light songs.