Literature:
Dorothea Tanning: Hail, Delirium!, New York Public Library, 1992, catalog Nr. / no .68, S. / p.106
Werner Spies, Attentat auf die eigene Person, in: Frankfurter Allegemeine Zeitung, 21. August 2010

Handsignierte, limitierte Lithografie nach dem bekanntesten Gemälde von Dorothea Tanning, Birthday, das heute in der permanenten Sammlung des Philadelphia Museum of Art hängt.
Here is the hand signed color lithograph of Birthday, Dorothea Tanning’s best known oil painting which now hangs in the permanent collection of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Dorothea Tanning: „At first there was only that one picture, a self-portrait. It was a modest canvas by present-day standards. But it filled my New York studio, the apartment’s back room, as if it had always been there. For one thing, it was the room; I had been struck, one day, by a fascinating array of doors—hall, kitchen, bathroom, studio—crowded together, soliciting my attention with their antic planes, light, shadows, imminent openings and shuttings. From there it was an easy leap to a dream of countless doors. Perhaps in a way it was a talisman for the things that were happening, an iteration of quiet event, line densities wrought in a crystal paperweight of time where nothing was expected to appear except the finished canvas and, later, a few snowflakes, for the season was Christmas, 1942, and Max was my Christmas present.
It was snowing hard when he rang the doorbell. Choosing pictures for a show to be called Thirty Women (later Thirty-One Women), he was a willing emissary to the studios of a bouquet of pretty young painters who, besides being pretty, which they couldn’t help, were also very serious about being artists.
“Please come in,” I smiled, trying to say it as if to just anyone. He hesitated, stamping his feet on the doormat. “Oh, don’t mind the wet,” I added. “There are no rugs here.” There wasn’t much furniture either, or anything to justify the six rooms, front to back. We moved to the studio, a livelier place in any case, and there on an easel was the portrait, not quite finished. He looked while I tried not to. At last, “What do you call it?” he asked. “I really haven’t a title.” “Then you can call it Birthday.” Just like that.“ (Aus / From: Birthday, Santa Monica: The Lapis Press, 1986, S. / p. 14, und / and Between Lives: An Artist and Her World. W.W. Norton & Company, New York 2001, S. / pp. 62-63.)