She was, in a sense, the Louise Brown of her generation—the most talked-about baby of 1945. Not that Deborah Skinner was sired in a test tube. The controversy lay in the style of her upbringing. Deborah’s famous father, behavioral psychologist B.F. Skinner, had devised a unique method of infant care that made some people wonder if the F stood for Frankenstein.

Actually, all Skinner had done was play handyman; he built an insulated, glassed-in crib for young Deborah. The “baby tender,” as Skinner called it, was conceived as a boon for both her and her mother, Eve. It eliminated the need for blankets and did away with rashes and the danger of smothering. A healthy baby, Deborah lived cheerfully in her climate-controlled environment for two and a half years. Though she was removed frequently for cuddling and play, the world was drawing hostile conclusions. After B.F. described his discovery in a magazine article, Deborah’s crib became known as the “Baby Box.” The suspicion grew that Skinner had performed psychological experiments on his daughter like those he did on pigeons in his famed “Skinner Box.” Years later rumors were rampant—and still are—that Deborah had been so traumatized by her “conditioning” that she (a) became psychotic, (b) brought suit against her father and (c) killed herself.

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Fortunately, reports of Deborah Skinner’s demise have proved greatly exaggerated. At 34, she is a hale, up-and-coming artist living in London’s Hampstead district with her husband, Barry Buzan, an assistant professor of political science at the University of Warwick. “I’m pretty sure I’m not crazy,” says Deborah, facetiously. “And I don’t seem to have committed suicide.” Though she finds the morbid misinformation about her “a source of amusement and entertainment,” she was sufficiently piqued by a recent misleading BBC broadcast to fire off a crisp note of protest. The network, by way of apology, treated her and Buzan to an expensive lunch.

As for B.F., 75, who visits London twice a year, Deborah speaks of him with daughterly affection. She believes his behavioral theories are “underused and underrated,” and a well-thumbed leather-bound collection of his works dominates her living room bookcase. “I didn’t know he was famous until I was 18,” she confesses. To her he was just plain “Daddy.”

It was Daddy, in fact, who fostered 5-year-old Deborah’s interest in art by presenting her with an array of felt-tipped markers one summer in Maine. She was constantly in trouble in grammar school, she recalls, for sketching furtively during class. After Boston University, she briefly considered following in her father’s footsteps (her older sister, Julie, 41, is an educational psychologist at West Virginia University), but opted instead for further training in art at the City and Guilds’ London Art School.

While a student there, she met Buzan at a Halloween party. He was enthralled by the girl in the gorilla mask and 17th-century dress, and knew nothing of her celebrated infancy. Several months later Deborah dutifully confessed who she was, only to have Barry reply, “Who’s B.F. Skinner?” They were married in 1973. He calls himself a “cultural barbarian,” but she says “he gets the message” of her work and often helps her title it.

Artistically, Deborah specializes in painstakingly etched landscapes that sell for “a respectable British wage”—about $80 apiece. She reproduces them herself on a huge rumbling press in her flat. It is tedious work and, to egg herself on, she employs a little Skinnerian reinforcement: promising herself a tennis game or a ramble on Hampstead Heath whenever a print run is completed.