When I looked in the mirror, I saw an incomplete face. A human formed so vague, God forgot to give her a face. Formed by the last lump of clay, A human,incomplete in every possible way. Yet, a chisel given as the last parting gift, Ready to define my own face.
When I look in the mirror these days, I see a different face. Imperfect but proud, Because I sculpted it.
The most beautiful artwork comes from us. Our lives are like a mosaic. Sometimes we have to break apart, in order to remake ourselves. That’s the beauty of life. With each trial, we are constructing new and different versions of ourselves; sculpting into a beautiful masterpiece.
Photography* is poetry using light. Poetry is painting with words. Painting is sculpting on eyes. Sculpting is music for stones. Music is writing through feelings. Writing is pottery with thoughts. Pottery is photography of clay.
Artists have their own understanding of what they are doing...
I constructed my sister’s portrait in three parts: her eyes painted full color, bright with oil, nose in colored pencil, a few shades more sallow, and her mouth lightly smeared No. 2 pencil,
because I wasn’t sure how to form the words for a police report never filed against you. And sometimes I pass you on my way to town, you still driving that ugly, blue pickup with that same old sneer on your pig-like face--
I want to scream out my window the way I did when I dreamed you came to me years in the future, asking how I’ve been, some lame excuse to bury your immorality with rice-paper niceties. I remember my throat tore and bled as if I’d swallowed broken metal wire as I repeated over and again: Do you know what you did? Do you know what you caused?
I constructed my sister’s portrait with three bits of paper ripped apart and glued crudely together again.