I find myself drawn back to the red earth. The red earth, red with iron, red like blood; my blood red with iron. Perhaps just earth in general or perhaps I'm just homesick. I never thought I would call it home. ... Earth in hand. Water on earth, and slowly, very slowly, through earth. A caress turned frenzy when looked at from this point in time. Behold the wreckage, the damage, the decay of time, of earth, of land, the wash away... Reveal the veins of the earth. Cut with a knife, deep, where you think they are until you still can’t find them; because you never learned anatomy, because human dissection is forbidden, because you have little idea of what’s inside. No one dreams of an autopsy. Red earth washes off hands looking like blood. How can you tell me it isn’t, inside and out of me. How can you tell me I'm not the same? I lived my whole life there, and hated every minute, but never got acquainted...the sun was...
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To give you an idea this was the intention (roughly): Physically the work consists of clays in several forms, different types of earth and earth processes. Bisqued porcelain clouds, cracked, repaired, and filled with water to leak, hang above raw clay body, lying below as to receive the water falling and be changed by it. The work plays at nature, mimicking it like a breathing stage set, only real to the limit of its lung expanse but real enough. " The best-laid plans of mice and men..." am I right?
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