It all began with my “drawing in the air”, my mother called it, when I was in my stroller or in my high chair. Then there were crayons and coloring books. There was art in school—the good teachers who provided tempera paint and raffia and colored wool and French pastels. There was paper at home, reams of paper since my father was a printer. There were four of us children. And we all were able to draw what we saw. My brothers drew cartoons and airplanes and animals and caricatures and fantasy buildings and futuristic cities. My sister designed her dresses and dresses for my paper dolls. My mother made slipcovers and drapes; my father made cabinets and shelves and picket fences and pigeon coops. Our hands were always busy. As the youngest child I learned by watching—making things was a good thing to do. There was no scrap which was useless, it was, all of it, raw material for our handiwork. There was nothing we saw in any store or showroom or catalogue or in someone else’s house, which we would not attempt to replicate and then to try to improve. The world was ours to put our stamp upon. I credit my family’s example for allowing me to give myself permission to become an artist. Permission is the first step in risk taking, which is necessary for any creative act, be it in business or in the arts.