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 Let me back up and say that one of the reasons that I did the PBS film was because we’re in a pandemic and because young people are going, “Oh, my goodness. How are we going to dance?” In the beginning, way back in 1965, nobody offered us an opportunity to dance. Nobody said, “Here’s the stage. Here are dancers. Here is money.” We went out and did it. We figured out where abandoned buildings were that we could get into. Where are spaces? We danced in parks. We danced in malls. We danced in the subways. Can you do it now? Times are very different. Expenses are very different. We were able to work part-time jobs and be able to pay enough of our expenses that we could afford to work for nothing for five years. Serious, hard, heavy-duty work. You can’t do that in New York now. Not possible.

When you talk about expenses, do you mean the Franklin Street loft from the nineteen-sixties?

Yes. Fifty bucks a month. ANDIEZ Personalized Nail Salon I Can't Change The World But I Can Change Your Nail Poster

In those same early years, you were making all the dances in the park with an all-female collective. Do you ever miss that period?

We knew at the time, it was the best years of our lives. Sara Rudner, who’s mentioned in the film, is one of my dearest, oldest, most special people in the whole world. We were in London, in our first world tour, in 1966. I just looked at her, and I said, “Sara, things are tough.” Nobody was making any money. We were sleeping in somebody’s basement. We were carrying the costumes and turning on the lights. I said, “Sara, these are the best years of our lives. We’re having the most fun.” She looked at me, and she said, "I know it.” You’re in the trenches with somebody, and you have their back. The camaraderie and the intensity of commitment and fraternity, if I may use that word for a bunch of women, was intense.

You went from that period of freedom to being stuck in a farm upstate with a baby, feeling, like, What do I do now? There’s a part of your memoir where your partner at the time, the artist Bob Huot, told you, “You love your work more than me.” Was it the work that brought you back to the city?

Well, first of all, one goes where there is work, and that kind of is a given for someone who does what I do. In addition, I was very aware that I could not be beholden to someone’s definition of who I was—that I was going to have to be responsible for my own identity. In that era, many female artists were attached to male painters. I was not going to remain under the tutelage and wing of a male figure who had more power and more knowledge and who was older. I was going to have to do it on my own terms.

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