About

My art world unfolded before me as a child in Taos, New Mexico, on La Loma, the original plaza of this mystical village. Nestled in the high mountains and surrounded by the majestic Sangre de Cristo range, Taos is a place where the sky stretches endlessly above, so vast that as a child, I feared I might fall into it if I gazed too long.

The artists who came to Taos in the early days hailed from all corners of the globe—Russia, France, England, and New York—each drawn to this place for its breathtaking light, the golden glow of Taos. Thanks to Mabel Dodge Luhan and the earlier generation of brilliant painters, Taos became a mecca for the arts, a sanctuary where creativity thrived.

Growing up here felt more like living in a village in Morocco than in the United States. The newcomers were vibrant, educated, and full of life, deeply connected to the people of New Mexico. The Native Americans, too, carried on their traditions with pride: the men wore white blankets that accentuated their rich, red skin and dark, perfectly braided hair, while the women donned bright striped blankets and deerskin boots. And then there were the artists themselves, each one expressing their identity through their unique attire—truly a feast for the eyes.

As children, we would visit these artists to sweep their patios in exchange for a dime or a cookie, and to listen to the exquisite sounds of Chopin or Russian violin music filling the air. They instilled in us a love of great books and a deep curiosity about the world. The smell of oil paints was intoxicating, and sometimes we were allowed to watch as they applied bold strokes of color to their canvases, effortlessly bringing landscapes and portraits to life. To me, the world was one of endless beauty, a realm where art and artists shaped everything. It was an escape from a reality that lacked such wonders—the kind of life only an artist could live, and by proximity, it became my life, too. For years, I believed the entire world was filled with painters, writers, and musicians.

Years later, my husband, photographer Charles Henningsen, and I opened Lumina Gallery in the grand Victor Higgins home, once the St. Teresa Mission built in the 1800s. The gallery stood beside the estate of Mabel Dodge Luhan, a space that had once been the heart of creative energy, much like Gertrude Stein’s salon in Paris. It was a time when the world was brimming with artists and innovation—and luckily, for me, Taos was at the center of it all.

I had three core principles for the artists I chose to represent at Lumina Gallery. First, I required that an artist have a minimum of twenty years of dedication to their craft. Second, I aimed to showcase primarily New Mexico artists, with a few exceptions. And third, I needed to have a genuine love for the artwork, so much so that I would want to buy it myself. This combination of vision and passion made Lumina Gallery an immediate success. My staff was exceptional—bright, eager, and full of energy. Together, we felt like we were gliding through the cosmos, united in a mission to make Lumina the most beautiful gallery New Mexico had ever seen, or ever would. It was the Chanel of art, a living, breathing space with a soul. And it was deeply loved.

Years later, I opened Lumina Sculpture Gardens, a vast, landscaped space designed to showcase a monumental sculpture from Carrara, Italy. It marked the end of an era—the closing chapter of Taos' celebrated art movement. The gardens became a living tribute to that legacy, and I am forever in awe of what it represented—who it honored with such pride, and the lasting impact it had on every visitor.

Lumina gave me what the artists of my childhood gave me: a gateway to cherished memories, an education in the transformative power of art, and above all, a profound respect for the artists themselves. 

Art is a calling, a gift, and a challenging path to follow. But what a road it is—a journey filled with mystery, woven with divine languages, and echoing with ancient songs from days long past, days that will never come again.