Letters

My typewriters arrived--my studio is complete. Safely ensconced in Jeanne de la Fontane's, my ancient grandmother, atelier, I unwind from the whirlwind of finding, deciphering, and translating her letters to me, her first born granddaughter named Jeanne, written in 1593 as she fled Germany for the coast of Normandy, avoiding a pre-arranged marriage to an egotistical blonde flim flam man, obese, morally corrupt, culturally stunted, vainly proud of his obscenity. My family provided this chilly but perfect space for me and my cats on the promise that I would shut the hell up, stay out of view, and get on with my art-making, never broaching the vile god-awful similarity of my nation's upcoming nuptials and those my many-great-grandmother avoided.

 For more of Jeanne Treadway visit RavenJets