For our second issue, Dana brings us a remarkable article, detailing the mystery of "Artistic Vision." Borrowing her narrative style from documentary films, she leads us, step by step, to the formation of her vision. Enjoy the journey Dana takes us on as she lends a unique "voice" to the visual impact of her art.

"It has been such a lovely night so far," Amy thought. The warm spring evening had included a most elegant, candlelit, French meal; its apex being the romantic, memorable dance with her boyfriend, Brad.

He looked so handsome in his custom made tuxedo, and she hoped the professional photographer had captured his boyish but sophisticated manner. After all, this evening would never happen again, and she wanted everything to be just right.

If only she didn't have to wait for those photographs...how burdensome, she thought.

She had prepared months ahead for this night, making sure each detail was given its due attention. Her floor length, lemon colored silk gown had been handmade by a designer whose private shop was located in uptown Manhattan. She had gone to great, but necessary, lengths to have a unique gown that none of the other girls could rival. In fact, she told no one (except her mother, of course) of her gown's color.

Her naturally blonde hair was coiffed by a highly regarded stylist in her upscale, Long Island hometown. Her makeup was flawless; her nails were beautifully manicured. Her shoes had been custom made to complement her gown. She knew she had planned well for this once in a lifetime occasion. She looked absolutely radiant.

This definitely wouldn't just be any prom, she thought. This had been her most successful year at the Academy- she was the president of the French Club, a member of the Honor Society, and was recognized for her mastery of piano. This would be a grand celebration of her waning senior year at the Academy.

It was also a time to share an exciting secret she had been saving for this night--the full scholarship she received from the University she would attend next fall.

Amy anticipated the late night picnic on the beach with Brad and their friends after the dance. "How fun it will be," she thought.

Oh, God, please help me.
Where am I?
     Where's Brad?
     I'm so cold.
          What's wrong with my leg? I can't move.
          My leg
               I can't move my legs. I can't breathe.
               Oh, God-what do I do- Oh no.....No
This isn't sand-
What happened to my dress, no....no
     Brad-he was mad or something
     He didn't- no, I can't remember-
          he was mad-
          I've got to find a way out of here.
Brad.
Oh, God. Oh, God. I can't breathe.
     I don't understand. Oh, my head hurts so
     bad. I can't...
          I can't breathe
          Mom, Dad. Mom......
               What ...happened to me?
               This isn't happening
                    Where am I? I, I can't ...breathe.
                         Help me.
                              Brad
                                   I'm so cold.
                                        Take the pain away
                                             Why me

I decided to read the paper one Sunday afternoon as I took a break from the studio. My painting had not been going the way I wanted it to and I looked for a good excuse to abandon it for a few hours.

Maybe I'd find some inspiration there. This most thick pad of paper, called the New York Times, seemed immovable upon the kitchen table, waiting for me to deal with it. It was definitely not the greatest temptation, but it was there, nonetheless.

On a whim, I wondered to myself how to go about tackling this lifeless lump of a monster. I decided to be random about it, and treat the paper as a Dada artist might. I randomly opened it up, closed my eyes, pointed my finger on a spot, and decided to read whatever article or ad was there.

This is where I met Amy, in a short, singular paragraph beneath a Macy's ad.

I learned only her first name, that she was an eighteen year old from a well-to-do family, and that she was found dead in a secluded ravine on Long Island.

It took a couple days for police to find her body. She was wearing a very tattered and torn prom gown, covered with dirt and mud. Her legs had been broken; she had been drugged and apparently choked.

There was evidence that a sexual assault occurred. Her boyfriend was initially a suspect; however, after questioning wasn't convicted of any wrongdoing. Apparently, he was not near the scene of the crime at the specific time this assault occurred. His friend was a solid alibi. The police planned to continue with the case & hunt for suspects.

Immediately I began creating images in my mind about what she must have looked like, how she must have felt, what she must have thought.

In just one night, meant to be the most memorable and special night of her young life, everything came to pieces. How scared she must have been there, all alone.

Something about this story haunted me.

A tiny paragraph, one I'd never have noticed if not for my random tactics, had been devoted to this enormous injustice. And above the small paragraph was a half page Macy's advertisement devoted to the latest trends in women's fashion.

This seemed quite ironic and somehow totally relevant to me. I could not return to the painting that I abandoned earlier that afternoon. I felt like something needed to be done about what I had so casually read.

Perhaps we should fashion a memorial to this young woman--something that would not be thrown away the next day in a garbage can.

It needed to be permanent--something that communicated what she must have felt that night all alone dying in that cold ravine. I returned to my studio with a new energy and inspiration.

The images in my mind that had been stimulated by this article did not manifest themselves in a painterly form. Instead, the forms were sculptural. An image of a too-tightly fitted gown, stretched out lengthwise kept repeating in my mind. The dress was shaped as if it had suffered upon a medieval torturer's rack. I did not picture Amy wearing this dress; instead, the dress was symbolic of her presence, her potential, her hopes and dreams, and her greatest fear.

I found myself forming a narrative of the glorious prom night, imagining details the way a young aspiring woman might. I reminisced about my own prom night, and recalled how hopeful and wondrous life seemed at that time. Perhaps Amy had felt the same way. She seemed to have it all- a supportive and wealthy family, a handsome and intelligent boyfriend, and an exciting future ahead of her. She was intelligent, talented, and beautiful.

I decided to totally invest myself into the creation of this sculptural piece. I wanted to make each step of the process meaningful to me. I set foot out into the dirty Brooklyn streets with an old grocery store cart, accompanied with plentiful garbage bags. Admittedly, I resembled a "bag lady", perhaps intentionally so. I made my way through the streets scavenging for women's discarded clothes. I was able to fill up my cart after several hours of collecting, and returned to the studio to begin the project.

I chose to make this long gown out of some discarded, anonymous women's clothes to represent the universality of Amy's story. This is something that happens frequently to women, and oftentimes goes unnoticed.

On one hand, this was about Amy as an individual; on the other, it was about the plight of women throughout the world, subjected to violence beyond their control.

I tore out the worn seams of the clothing, and from the remaining pieces of fabric hand stitched a unifying new series of seams. I designed it so that it fit tightly on my own body. I sewed a very long Army body bag zipper into the front side of the dress. When finished, I had a long sleeved gown with an incredibly long train. It was approximately 20 feet long; as were the length of the sleeves.

I proceeded to impregnate the fabric with liquid latex, dirt, and refuse. This made an airtight seal, and tightened the dress even more. It felt like wearing a very tight, confining scuba suit. I kept layering these materials until the entire dress had a solid coating all around. Eventually, it looked as if this dress were made out of the earth itself.

To me, this represented the ravine in which Amy had been found, and also suggested a kind of burial. I perceived this two ways: both as a menacing form as well as a transformational, inspiring form. It was as if one could wear a cloak of nature itself. It became symbolic to me of the process of creation, life, death and resurrection, despite its origin.

This dress was also representative of an encasement or trap. Once zipped, one cannot release oneself from the gown. The length of the gown and its sleeves denies independently controlled movement. The individual becomes dependent upon an outsider to free him/her from the entrapment. This is accompanied by an overwhelming fear of powerlessness; it becomes very difficult to breathe. One begins to sweat profusely. It is impossible to stand, to sit, and to even scratch an itch. One becomes so directly aware of one's body-the preciousness and vulnerability of it.

To appreciate this sculpture, one must wear it, not just look at it. One must don the skin to feel the struggle.

The display of this piece took several different forms.

Initially it was the subject of several performance pieces in which I wore the gown myself. I silently positioned myself in conspicuous areas where individuals would be forced to encounter my presence, either directly or indirectly.

Sometimes I blended in with the ground and individuals would not notice me until about to step on me. To see me there shocked them.

I also went to places where one would never expect to see such a sight- such as hanging from the ceiling in the foyer of a turn of the century mansion. I wanted to see how the placement of this piece affected not only my perception and experience, but especially those of the viewers.

The dress had a specific content, but I also realized the interpretations of the piece were very much affected by the location. Outside, it was primarily perceived in relation to earth and cycles of life. Even a "mother earth" figure, if you will.

Indoors, it was perceived as a statement about fashion as a trap, and had a certain maliciousness about it. To me, all these interpretations were relevant and appropriate to the piece. I wanted it to be about a specific event, and have it function at a more symbolic level, as well.

More frequently, however, this piece was a participatory sculpture- meant for viewers themselves to wear for a short time. Those who were daring enough to climb inside it initially approached it in a joking, lighthearted manner.

Once inside and zipped, however, their visage soon shifted to expressions of discomfort, even panic. No one wore the dress for more than approximately 5 minutes.

When released from the dress, individuals shared with me their impressions about the experience. It seemed as if they had been reawakened in a way, almost as if they had revisited a very intense painful memory. For several, it reminded them of times in their lives when they felt out of control, felt like an object, felt abandoned.

Usually accompanying the piece would be a short typewritten entry about the specific inspiration to create this sculpture, though it was never forced upon the viewer to read. I wanted them to discover the experience as I had, to move through the piece as a mission of discovery not only about Amy, but also about oneself.

The meaning, or content, of any specific artwork is multi-layered, despite its original source, despite the artist's intentions. Just like the story I happened across about Amy, I brought with me my own creativity, my own vision, my own experiences, and my own memories. Her story became mine.

Art becomes the medium through which inspiration merges with self to form a pathway. This pathway has the potential to lead each individual to unique and meaningful discoveries, if only they take the first, trusting step.

For me, discovering Amy led to discovering a new voice in my art. It led to explorations of ideas and forms I had never tried before. In fact, discovering that tiny paragraph beneath Macy's grand advertisement one Sunday afternoon forever changed my outlook as to what art can be, what it can do, and how it has the potential to be a transformative and meaningful experience.