I take a piece of natures rubble

and study the visual beauty with an understanding patience. What's telling? Natures wisdom helping to reveal my inner beauty to which I am blind. My art is my life, I am my own teacher and nature is my guidance. I let my hands speak to all eyes, my art shall carry on talking when my body dies.

The creators song, singing the patient verses, that go unheard. all they hear is the cadence, all you see is what you want but shadows never lie, they just play tricks.

Today and the axe has been fallen along with rain wet inside and out, sweating away  this Sunday. Growing blisters, artful, peeling form hidden deep within the Ash log ingrained in my subconscience. the wood shrinks and my muscles grow, sweeping away time, brain numbed in monotonous mallet rhythms, listening to the song of grain conducting the chisel cuts, directing the inner form to surface eyes.

Sculptures that disturb

the journey of the unknown me

to the surface eyes.

Objects that tie you to time that displays the past to the visions of now, that shall store for the future and be born again in the alternative version of the improvised second.

A day spent carving a great stone pushed to the surface, a pimple on the face of a green mountain, a mighty rock laid in my path. Have I the right to put my mark  on this age old boulder, swapping strength, fighting for art, hand to stone combat, surrender your form and I shall bleed without a care, my body will ache until we meet again partner. Singing together, I hear your tone ringing along with my hammer and chisel in harmony, rhythms ferried away upon crisp winds to sheep ears, my song-image that shall remain for years, that birds will look down upon and remark in song. That shall catch the eye of a walker on by and hold their attention in my mystery history, like the mystery history of this stone that found me and held me to a promise of art.