Lady McCrady, artist NYC and New Haven CT, Press

What Andy (Warhol) said....
By Cindy Wick, 2008
about Lady McCrady's exhibition at –– & –– gallery, East Village NYC, December 1985

I was standing in the crush of all the gallery people looking at your vibrant work. I was feeling overwhelmed and thrilled for you...wondering how you were so complete as an artist...and how you got there . . . on the verge of tears and vomit and jealousy and hope and regret (It's still a very intense moment for you can you tell?).

I was watching you and wondering really how to find that entitlement so pure and seemingly uninterrupted. And then...literally at the crescendo of the THANX sound emotion inside me, there was an intent whisper in my right ear. THIS COULD BE YOU TOO. I turned and inches from my face was Andy, who had clearly tapped into all that I was feeling. I will never forget it. That for me was a laser that propelled me forward to really truly unravel everything to get to the essence of what I want.

I love being able to tell you because it was your show and you knew Andy and that radiant creative time in all of our lives.

LADY McCRADY is presented in Paris by OLIVIER RENAUD-CLEMENT
Galerie J & J Donguy, November 1985

She walks, strides the city walkways, the zebra warning barriers, the danger signals of precipitous edges. Fast, from one capital to the
next, New York, London or Paris, Cairo, Tokyo, proving she was born in Speedway City: perhaps it is this name inscribed in the cavity of
her veins that makes her traverse the roads, the axis, the senses. She sees, or rather, records hastily the incidental manhole, a little nothing that she seizes and (unknown to her) that seizes her, for her series of archaeological digs.

Here in the smoking cities, on the glistening slate pavements, the reflective beacons encircle a gaping spot, an area under construction:
the drain plate lifts, leaving you to see the glowing embers. It is this chink in the slick surface that steals her. Here is an improper flaw, a
troupe of guideposts warning you of the brink. She pursues it, forgetful of the railing.

Notice that her gesture on the canvas enlarges on the vivid color relationships, in sympathy with the majestic rhythms of her fevered body.
In red, in orange, she pulses the smothering light from underground, vibrant, strident, with an air of jazz that insinuates itself louder and
louder. Backstage in the wings since she was three years old, she fell asleep listening when her father rehearsed his orchestra. One calls
her Lady, perhaps she tossed a pebble on a child’s hopscotch grid between Heaven and Hell.

Today for this first exhibition in Europe, Lady McCrady as she plays again, opens sealed containters, uncaps, adds color to her
excavations, these fires next to where we walk, calmly . . .

by Claudia PALUEL-MARMON