And so a childhood memory goes – and my life in clay – the exploration of a visceral material that delights in the occasional “capture” of an idea amidst the frequent upending of the wrong stones. Getting dirty and periodically bit becomes part of the joy of discovery – mainly of myself – the parts that remained buried under the years of fallen leaves in the backyard.
Each successful snare is a moment- each line drawn a tendril of memory that, at times, barely holds on – and the colors muted as recall fades and the edges become blurry.
Nevertheless, it is a rush when that small wriggling idea is grasped and held, if only for an instant, because it explains me and how I am now. But the greatest satisfaction is when I release it – allowing it to be free – allowing me to be also.