Tales of life - the summary of home and the path to rhythm. The narrative is a funny thing. Perceivable and changeable, no boundaries and only a grudging acceptance of the millions of voices that make up a single instant of existence.
The tales may weave, but the intersections are where the symbols turn to color; up and over broad swaths of your story, my story, their story. Ubiquitous. Universal in origin and parochial in understanding. We sing our own song by the music of others.
It is human.
Most of these bronzes begin as wood, often as roots, often twisted with stories of their own. My preferred interpretation material tends to be clay and may include symbols and other graphic variables that are important to me. Telling a story from my lifebook.
Roots tend to tell the story of a life underground we do not know much about. The travails of locomotion through the dark and dense, the stones and the water, the non-space and the airless regions. They also, particularly when brought to the surface, speak to the vast unknown that we cannot see, and become fascinating with their otherness.
As we move further and further into the age of certainty where the less unidentified, the better, we might keep in mind that in the end what we do not know is always much vaster than what we can know. Our imagination is unlikely to match the reality of possibility - the most wonderful expression of life I can think of.
The beauty lies in the metaphor of the roots; the unrelenting push forward. Go over, under, through, around. The traverse that negotiates the unseen and the unknown. Stopping is not an option. Like us...