Gothic Rock-a-Bye: A Nostalgic Rocking Horse Story
This collection didn't start at my drawing desk; it started in the dusty basements of my childhood summers. Growing up between the vineyards of Napa and the rugged coast of Chile and the countryside of France, our summers weren't filled with the shiny, plastic toys of the modern world. Instead, we spent three months every year playing with the treasures my parents had played with decades before. I remember dolls with porcelain heads and scratched-off eyes, tiny rattan bassinets, and wooden ducks on wheels. But the centerpiece was always the wooden rocking horse. It was covered in dents, the paint was chipped away in patches, and we’d have to clear away the spiderwebs before it could see the light of day again. Even my piano practice felt like a scene from a gothic film. My grandfather’s upright piano in Cognac hadn't been tuned in half a century; every note struck sounded like something out of a freaky movie. Yet, I’d sit there at ten years old, practicing in that echoing, ...