ABSTRACT
In 1979, I saw Meredith Monk’s Education of the Girlchild at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. I was struck then by potent and beautiful images that I carried for years: women in white clothing, indecipherable but somehow familiar events, bowls and books and branches, and the solo trip down miles of muslin, Monk imagining herself first as an old woman and then winding back through the years of her life.
