I was blessed with some unexpected lessons about what it means to be an artist. I learned how to be vulnerable, how to ask for help, and how to expand my, once tiny, circle of trust. Perhaps I shouldn't have been so surprised at the reactions of perfect strangers to what was once a wild pipe dream---and the way that dream, once invited, waltzed into reality like the ghost of Fred Astaire. As an artist, I've come to accept that pipe dreams are the blueprint from which we build our wares.

This past weekend was a whirlwind, as our dancers donned python prints and traded their feathered boas for the real thing. We were mesmerized by Jason Raimondi's virtual roadshow of slithering creatures, and shocked by the size and docile nature of the snakes. 

It's a rather serendipitous story, the tale of how Jenny Lou made a rags to riches trip from a washed-up old hunk of leather in Maine, to Celebrity Day at the Kentucky Derby Festival.

On a dusty old shelf, in the basement of my late grandfather's house, a row of Photo Booth snap shots of my grandmother lay face-down. The expression on her face, especially in one of the shots, is haunting. The photos were taken shortly following their split and she was dressed to the nines. A questioning, a longing, an aching heart shines shattered behind her eyes. 

 This old photo was the first inspiration for the music video. What began simply enough, catapulted me into the project of a lifetime.