As a child, I witnessed something so sublime that I was compelled to preserve it with pencil and paper. Excitedly, I shared my drawing with the persons nearest to me. To my disappointment, they were rarely as impressed.
This is how it began.. And also how it continues (now with clay).
From seeing ⮕ To perceiving ⮕ To clutching and clawing at understanding ⮕ then wholeheartedly conveying what’s left. Emphasis on what’s left. Experience has proven that as soon as I grab hold of something, my touch disfigures it, and I’m now fumbling with an object of my own invention, not the truth I had originally observed.
This fluid nature of reality is the perverse paradox I find myself in, ad infinitum. Any attempt to grasp it is like a drop of water trying to hold onto a drop of water while they’re both riding a crashing wave. Futile, yet they keep clinging to one another because that’s what water does.
And what other choice is there?
Simply stated: my sculptures are what remain of me perceiving truth, both of which (myself + reality), I've come to accept, are as plastic and malleable as my medium - clay. And if the truth is clay, let me shut up and get back to work.