Portrait of the artist surrounded by things in the studio, including her familiar, the catspider. In between the interior and the world outside is the curtain that scrims the loft window. Beyond it is a bit of Canal Street at night: the kiosks of glittering stuff, piles of fabrics and the restless movement of figures within the light, outlined in the light and shifting past. Its inside/outside, warm/cold, imaginary/real, all lightly divided by a wind-blown lace curtain. And the crazy fish? Just my brain leaking creatures.