Essay · 6.2.26
Let it rip?
There would be many hours of transport, chainsawing, end-sealing and months of dark isolation in a paper grocery bag immersed in the shavings of previous projects before I would begin. The deep hues washing over knot grain and pith, abutting the contrasts of fibers bleached and softened by decay had taken decades to emerge. Mother’s Day was approaching. My chisels were now on the clock.