Well, my
adolescent desire to be different has caught up to me and it has created a pall
of dis-ease.
In what I
always thought of as a creative attempt to shrug off being just another Sue in
a sea of Sues, Susies, and Susans, years and years ago I started spelling my
name as “Sioux”. I’ve signed my paintings that way for years.
People
would ask if I were Native American, and I would tell them the closest I have
come to being Native American was when I was accused of running around “like a
wild Indian” as a child.
I settled
on Sioux, because although it sounded the same, it seemed so exotic and the
letters were so much prettier—an X in my name! (I’ve loved typography since way
back when.)
But, over
time, as I experience more of the world outside of Looney-fornia, particularly the time we’ve
spent of late in the Southwest, I’ve become more aware of and sensitive to
Native American concerns. I do not want to offend the people who will someday
be my neighbors by appearing I am something that I am not. I was, and still am,
a simple Irish girl with a burning desire to stand out from the crowd in some
way.
In
hindsight, maybe Grand Prix would have been a better choice—showier and less
offensive. Though over the years I’ve grown more comfortable with the me that
is me; Susan isn’t so bad after all, I guess.
So,
henceforth, you’ll see a different scribble on my paintings. Long after I’m
gone and my artwork is a ubiquitous fixture in thrift stores, another
generation of collectors can wonder if Sioux and whatever-I-settle-on are one
and the same.
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