Alumnae
Winsor Bulletin
Current Bulletin Cover Story
By: Victoria Tilney McDonough ’83
The arts can tell us so much about the world — and about ourselves. Whether visual or performing, they help our heads and hearts as we strive to communicate, innovate, grow, rejoice, mourn — to feel, connect, and hope in ways we sometimes did not dream possible. The arts can push us to break barriers, invite unity, and create space. They make us want to be our best selves and, in so doing, help others do the same.
The arts can tell us so much about the world — and about ourselves. Whether visual or performing, they help our heads and hearts as we strive to communicate, innovate, grow, rejoice, mourn — to feel, connect, and hope in ways we sometimes did not dream possible. The arts can push us to break barriers, invite unity, and create space. They make us want to be our best selves and, in so doing, help others do the same.
We spoke to several Winsor alumnae about their lives in, with, or around the visual and performing arts. Many of them credited Winsor with helping them find their way as artists, by teaching them resilience, perseverance, leadership, or the discipline and joy of a creative practice.
"Music definitely moors me. It keeps me honest and open and willing to be raw enough to actually grow, and in sharing that raw honesty, I hope to do what music does best: help people feel less alone and instead connected as human beings.”
“When I think about my best and worst times, each memory comes with a soundtrack. I can close my eyes, hear that music, and I am back in time, back in that story. As a songwriter, I definitely write from an emotional place, whether about helping my daughter during a hard time, missing my mother during the Covid lockdown, or overhearing a little snippet of human conversation on the subway.” “I learned my first chords from a friend at Winsor when I was 12 but didn’t start making records in earnest until about 20 years ago. As a songwriter, I get to struggle through the more solitary process of messing around with stories, words, and melodies until I can rise from that cobalt pool bottom with something I have created out of nothing. On the flip side, as a performer on stage, on tour, I can make music with one, two, three others — creating energy, community, and connection while raising the roof, getting people on their feet, and sometimes after a show having people come up to me and say, ‘That song got me through my chemo…You don’t know me, but I feel like your songs were written precisely for me…’ I am invariably awed by how transformative music can be.”
In many ways, each [old cookbook] stands as an intimate time capsule of culture, tradition, and human connection.”
Suzanne’s Community Cookbook Archive: LA, a digital archive that to date includes more than 300 cookbooks from 1890 to the present day, reflects and documents specific places and moments in time. The cookbooks serve not just as recipe references but as primary-source documents of a diverse array of local organizations and groups — from radiologists and rock collectors to Air Force wives and zoo docents. An exhibit of 99 of the books was on display at the central library branch of Los Angeles and is expanding online, becoming a living and growing history of connection.
“I have found that each cookbook is its own interactive piece of history and art. Together, they are like the rings
of a tree, revealing the manifold and ever-changing layers of the city of Los Angeles. Food — and stories — are, after all, the ultimate connectors of families, neighborhoods,
and communities.”
“Sometimes it’s the mundane objects in our lives, the ones that have sat on the shelf or in a forgotten drawer for years, the ones we may take for granted, that can have the most meaning to us as individuals and members of a community. I love old cookbooks; they speak to me as someone who is drawn to make art through the lens of social history. In many ways, each stands as an intimate time capsule of culture, tradition, and human connection. I started collecting them for fun — immersing myself in the cover art, drawings, stories, secrets, handwriting, jokes, traditions…and recipes.”
“I have found that each cookbook is its own interactive piece of history and art. Together, they are like the rings
of a tree, revealing the manifold and ever-changing layers of the city of Los Angeles. Food — and stories — are, after all, the ultimate connectors of families, neighborhoods,
and communities.”
“Sometimes it’s the mundane objects in our lives, the ones that have sat on the shelf or in a forgotten drawer for years, the ones we may take for granted, that can have the most meaning to us as individuals and members of a community. I love old cookbooks; they speak to me as someone who is drawn to make art through the lens of social history. In many ways, each stands as an intimate time capsule of culture, tradition, and human connection. I started collecting them for fun — immersing myself in the cover art, drawings, stories, secrets, handwriting, jokes, traditions…and recipes.”
When I look at our world today, I believe there would be far less strife and partisan fighting if people were less afraid to imagine and empathize with another’s person’s struggles and beliefs.”
“What I love about acting is that it allows you to ask ‘Why?’ I found acting after college as a way to grieve the death of my mother, and I fell in love with it. My world exploded! I read everything I could get my hands on. Here was this thing I could do that I absolutely loved. I felt open and creative in new ways and could put my innate curiosity about others’ experiences to creative use. What is so magnetic about acting is that it invites you to examine who you are as you step into the shoes of another person (fictional or not) and try to genuinely understand the background, point of view, and motivations of that person who may be in so many ways different from you.”
“Acting aside, when I look at our world today, I believe there would be far less strife and partisan fighting if people were less afraid to imagine and empathize with another’s person’s struggles and beliefs. In acting, teachers often say, ‘Never judge your character,’ which is good advice. I find that you have to bring empathy, nonjudgment, and humanity to whomever you are portraying. Characters, like ‘real’ people, are complicated.”
“The business has definitely changed a lot since I started, not always for the best, but I am gratified to see on stage, TV, film, and in commercials many more people of different colors, ethnicities, genders, sizes, shapes, ages, and neurodiversity. That gives me hope. We all want to recognize at least small nuggets of ourselves in what we read or watch…that is how we know we are not alone, that we matter, that we are human.”
“Acting aside, when I look at our world today, I believe there would be far less strife and partisan fighting if people were less afraid to imagine and empathize with another’s person’s struggles and beliefs. In acting, teachers often say, ‘Never judge your character,’ which is good advice. I find that you have to bring empathy, nonjudgment, and humanity to whomever you are portraying. Characters, like ‘real’ people, are complicated.”
“The business has definitely changed a lot since I started, not always for the best, but I am gratified to see on stage, TV, film, and in commercials many more people of different colors, ethnicities, genders, sizes, shapes, ages, and neurodiversity. That gives me hope. We all want to recognize at least small nuggets of ourselves in what we read or watch…that is how we know we are not alone, that we matter, that we are human.”
The arts link us to the sacred — to looking inside ourselves and outside ourselves at the same time. They link us to something greater than ourselves, and there is immense power in that.”
“As a colorist living in Cohasset, I first see the three-dimensionality of the wetlands, woods, fields, and ocean around me. I see the push and pull of color and their relationship to each other. I start my compositions with big brushes, then build in the details later.”
“I believe that revelation comes from observation, from empathy, and from seeing the details in the big picture — skills I use in my painting but also as a nurse’s aide caring for the elderly. Many of my clients are nonverbal or have Alzheimer’s, so you have to be especially observant in order to see the colors of their needs and wants. Invariably, I have found that the elderly are full of wisdom, full of acceptance. As they die, they see a bigger world, one beyond themselves. For me, painting and caring for the elderly overlap on so many planes.”
“The pandemic also provided me with new insight into how my paintings are seen and interpreted. In the 2018, when my sister with special needs moved in with us and I struggled as her caregiver, I painted a blizzard on a mountain top with muted whites and grays; there was barely anything to see. For years the painting didn’t get many glances, but after the pandemic, people would stop and tell me that it captured what they had been feeling; it reflected their inner life during the most challenging times of the lockdown.”
“I believe that revelation comes from observation, from empathy, and from seeing the details in the big picture — skills I use in my painting but also as a nurse’s aide caring for the elderly. Many of my clients are nonverbal or have Alzheimer’s, so you have to be especially observant in order to see the colors of their needs and wants. Invariably, I have found that the elderly are full of wisdom, full of acceptance. As they die, they see a bigger world, one beyond themselves. For me, painting and caring for the elderly overlap on so many planes.”
“The pandemic also provided me with new insight into how my paintings are seen and interpreted. In the 2018, when my sister with special needs moved in with us and I struggled as her caregiver, I painted a blizzard on a mountain top with muted whites and grays; there was barely anything to see. For years the painting didn’t get many glances, but after the pandemic, people would stop and tell me that it captured what they had been feeling; it reflected their inner life during the most challenging times of the lockdown.”
As a dancer and a teacher, your body is your instrument and the studio home, a place where you can expand and explore. It’s work and joy and pain and freedom all at once.”
“Dancing is all about being centered in the moment, being in the sometimes risky but also fruitful place that is process. Each moment builds on the next — whether practicing battements in the studio, working with a partner to make a variation more liquid, or performing on stage. There is nothing like that feeling of oneness when everyone on and behind the stage, in the music pit, and in the audience are coming together in and around dance.”
“As a dancer and a teacher, your body is your instrument and the studio home, a place where you can expand and explore. It’s work and joy and pain and freedom all at once. Then there are the dance performances themselves…where all that you have practiced is revealed in the connection between mind and body. And yes, it is you dancing that role in space and time but around you are also all the other dancers, past and future, who have and will dance those same steps.”
“Dance can happen, it can be glorious, without musical accompaniment — I just think that dance is inherently musical. Mark Morris’ dances are informed by the structural forms of a musical score as Mr. Morris interprets it; Merce Cunningham’s choreography is created independently from a music score, however the music or sound and the dance co-exist when performed. Both Merce Cunningham’s and Mark Morris’ dances are (as I like to think of them) intricate structures of timing and rhythm.”
“As a dancer and a teacher, your body is your instrument and the studio home, a place where you can expand and explore. It’s work and joy and pain and freedom all at once. Then there are the dance performances themselves…where all that you have practiced is revealed in the connection between mind and body. And yes, it is you dancing that role in space and time but around you are also all the other dancers, past and future, who have and will dance those same steps.”
“Dance can happen, it can be glorious, without musical accompaniment — I just think that dance is inherently musical. Mark Morris’ dances are informed by the structural forms of a musical score as Mr. Morris interprets it; Merce Cunningham’s choreography is created independently from a music score, however the music or sound and the dance co-exist when performed. Both Merce Cunningham’s and Mark Morris’ dances are (as I like to think of them) intricate structures of timing and rhythm.”
I am reveling in using my hands (and heart), letting go of my perfectionism, and creating for the process, not the product.”
During the Covid lockdown and between school administration jobs, Sidra Smith ’88, who holds a Ph.D. in English from Tufts University, not only founded The Baobab Group, a consulting and coaching company, she also reignited a creative light that had been dormant for the last 30 years.
“I loved making art at Winsor —remember that safe haven up on the top floor filled with every kind of material with which to create? — especially when using pastels and charcoal, because they are so tactile and I could get closer to the paper itself. Now, my home office has transformed into this ever-expanding art studio filled with paper and fabric of all colors and textures where I have been focused on making mixed-media collages and monoprints from gelli plates. Next, I want to learn how to make books with handmade paper and bindings. I just can’t get enough; it’s almost like I have been reborn!
“Teaching and working in schools for the last several decades has been all about the head, head, head, and now I am reveling in using my hands (and heart), letting go of my perfectionism, and creating for the process, not the product. The irony is that my reconnection to making art has overlapped not only in how I collaborate with colleagues and students at my current school but also with my Baobab clients, with whom I work to liberate their own freedom to try new ways to lead, work, and live.”
“I loved making art at Winsor —remember that safe haven up on the top floor filled with every kind of material with which to create? — especially when using pastels and charcoal, because they are so tactile and I could get closer to the paper itself. Now, my home office has transformed into this ever-expanding art studio filled with paper and fabric of all colors and textures where I have been focused on making mixed-media collages and monoprints from gelli plates. Next, I want to learn how to make books with handmade paper and bindings. I just can’t get enough; it’s almost like I have been reborn!
“Teaching and working in schools for the last several decades has been all about the head, head, head, and now I am reveling in using my hands (and heart), letting go of my perfectionism, and creating for the process, not the product. The irony is that my reconnection to making art has overlapped not only in how I collaborate with colleagues and students at my current school but also with my Baobab clients, with whom I work to liberate their own freedom to try new ways to lead, work, and live.”
I find that the more deeply I dig into my own emotional depths, the more I can take my audiences and the people I work with on thought-provoking and unexpected journeys.”
“The first play I ever wrote was at Winsor, about a girl stuck in a well and hearing all the people above ground going about their business not knowing that she is down there. It was an obvious metaphor for the themes I continue to explore — women stuck where they don’t want to be and how they can liberate themselves, whether in a place, situation, job, or relationship.”
“As a dramaturg and playwright, I often find the seed for my next play or musical while researching something else (the depths of and ever-changing lessons from history are endless!). From that seed of an idea, I focus on figuring out what conversation I want to have with my audience. After all, live theater is a shared experience of laughter, tears, discomfort, and revelation, something that can’t be turned off, something that offers a unique energy each night — not only for the audience, but also for the performers, backstage crew, and original creators.”
“And for me, collaborating with directors and composers brings with it a whole other level of creation, of building on each other’s ideas and asking ‘what ifs.’ I find that the more deeply I dig into my own emotional depths, the more I can take my audiences and the people I work with on thought-provoking and unexpected journeys.”
“As a dramaturg and playwright, I often find the seed for my next play or musical while researching something else (the depths of and ever-changing lessons from history are endless!). From that seed of an idea, I focus on figuring out what conversation I want to have with my audience. After all, live theater is a shared experience of laughter, tears, discomfort, and revelation, something that can’t be turned off, something that offers a unique energy each night — not only for the audience, but also for the performers, backstage crew, and original creators.”
“And for me, collaborating with directors and composers brings with it a whole other level of creation, of building on each other’s ideas and asking ‘what ifs.’ I find that the more deeply I dig into my own emotional depths, the more I can take my audiences and the people I work with on thought-provoking and unexpected journeys.”
When you play in front of others, there is a special channeling of energy: you come as close to another human as you can without words.”
“For me, when I perform in front of a live audience, I experience the full rapture of life. When you play in front of others, there is a channeling of energy that is hard to put into words; you come as close to another human as you can without words. I work on classical pieces from the 1600s to the present, and each time I rehearse, perform, or teach a piece, I discover new layers, deeper nuances. Classical music transcends language and offers to those who play or listen a chance for deep introspection, a sense of hope and energy, and a connection to their innermost emotions.”
“Teaching and performing music definitely flow into each other; each makes the other better most of the time. Teaching my students, who are already at a high level of skill, is almost like passing on an oral tradition — you are sharing the insights and emotions that you take from a composer’s intention while also sharing the subtleties of playing an instrument like the violin…what to do with your arms and hands, how to angle the violin just so, how to bring your own interpretation and emotion to the rise and fall of the notes.”
“As the first woman and non-German to hold the role of vice president of international affairs and artistic development at the Cologne Conservatory of Music and Dance, I am finding new ways to collaborate and share the rapture of music. Whether playing with other musicians in small ensembles or in front of a full orchestra, there is beauty, emotion, discipline, and a dance of skills, styles, and emotions.”
“Teaching and performing music definitely flow into each other; each makes the other better most of the time. Teaching my students, who are already at a high level of skill, is almost like passing on an oral tradition — you are sharing the insights and emotions that you take from a composer’s intention while also sharing the subtleties of playing an instrument like the violin…what to do with your arms and hands, how to angle the violin just so, how to bring your own interpretation and emotion to the rise and fall of the notes.”
“As the first woman and non-German to hold the role of vice president of international affairs and artistic development at the Cologne Conservatory of Music and Dance, I am finding new ways to collaborate and share the rapture of music. Whether playing with other musicians in small ensembles or in front of a full orchestra, there is beauty, emotion, discipline, and a dance of skills, styles, and emotions.”
Art definitely has an innate power to move and connect us — whether we are creating, viewing, or interacting with it.”
“I always remember learning from one of my college professors about phenomenology — an approach to viewing the world through a child’s eyes, as if seeing every element in it for the first time. As a constant student of the landscape, I learn something new each time I go outside to paint. Even if I am painting the same vista, whether near my home in Boston’s South End or in New Hampshire or on Nantucket, there is always an opportunity to adapt and grow as a representational painter…I mean, the light may slant differently, the wind may twirl the leaves upside down or sideways, or a shingle may have shifted on that roof…what is the story I can paint on my canvas today, right now?
Meg received her Master’s degree in Curating at the Courtauld Institute of Art in London and has worked in a curatorial capacity at several museums and institutions since 2009. After ten years working as an exhibitions professional and curator at Boston Public Library, she recently committed to working as a full-time painter, but her cultural heritage background actively informs her approach to the arts.
“When I paint, especially outside, I feel as if I am fully present; physically, mentally, and sensorially. It is almost like a meditation. And as a curator at the Boston Public Library, and as a student of architectural history, I wanted people from all walks of life to access this immersive, meditative feeling when they viewed the library’s public collections, and the library itself: ‘This palace is the people’s own,’ as Oliver Wendell Holmes said in the late 1880s when it opened. Art definitely has an innate power to move and connect us — whether we are creating, viewing, or interacting with it.”
Meg received her Master’s degree in Curating at the Courtauld Institute of Art in London and has worked in a curatorial capacity at several museums and institutions since 2009. After ten years working as an exhibitions professional and curator at Boston Public Library, she recently committed to working as a full-time painter, but her cultural heritage background actively informs her approach to the arts.
“When I paint, especially outside, I feel as if I am fully present; physically, mentally, and sensorially. It is almost like a meditation. And as a curator at the Boston Public Library, and as a student of architectural history, I wanted people from all walks of life to access this immersive, meditative feeling when they viewed the library’s public collections, and the library itself: ‘This palace is the people’s own,’ as Oliver Wendell Holmes said in the late 1880s when it opened. Art definitely has an innate power to move and connect us — whether we are creating, viewing, or interacting with it.”
©2019 Winsor School. All Rights Reserved | Privacy Policy