PEARL
It was my church as much as Trinity Church was, the historic Episcopalian church we attended every Sunday, always trying to sit in the pew with the engraved silver plaque that read: In this pew George Washington worshipped when visiting Newport. What American would not want to sit in that pew? I loved the church"s tall, thin, striking spire, one so visible from the bay that sailors used it as a guide when navigating their way into port.
But this church, the one I visited daily, the one where I was free to be the artist I had always longed to be, was the Wright Gallery; indeed, the right gallery, owned and operated by my husband and me.
I stopped at the door on the second floor of the Brick Market Building. As it closed softly behind me, an aberrant notion knuckled its way into my
