I remember very vividly. I was here in New York. Nancy Holt called me and - I feel unhappy thinking about it - she said that Bob Smithson had died. I said, "Oh, Nancy, what will we do without Bob?" He was a very good friend.

Making the effort is quite a pleasure in itself.

I remember when I went to a gallery in Paris at one point, they had drawings of earthworks set in different places. I asked the person sitting at the gallery desk where these works were - where in France they could be found. She looked at me in horror as if I'd asked something completely insane. She said, "Well, of course, these works don't actually exist. They're concepts."

I think the four land artists I showed all worked within a few years of each other. And they were standard bearers, I suppose, for land art. They each did very separate things. Apparently, later in California, a lot of artists started working in that medium and there was something of a rush of earthworks. But I wasn't involved with that.

I remember very vividly. I was here in New York. Nancy Holt called me and - I feel unhappy thinking about it - she said that Bob Smithson had died. I said, "Oh, Nancy, what will we do without Bob?" He was a very good friend.

I opened with Edward Kienholz's The Beanery, and that's such a controversial piece that I think that brought people right away. It was a room-size work that one walked into. It was a bar with Kienholz-type figures sitting and drinking and talking - all life-size characters in a life-size setting. The exhibition was covered in Time, Newsweek, and Life, so it had huge recognition right away.

Quite honestly, even as a woman dealer, I really wasn't interested in masculinity or femininity as such. What was important to me was the value of the work itself. If a woman had come along, somebody like Lee Bontecou or Louise Nevelson, and said, "I'm working on the land," I would have gone to see it.