My heads too crowded

There’s someone screaming about memories, whilst other calls to the cracks in my work. This porcelain is like skin, but its delicacy is sharp. The charcoal lines dance on paper before me, black fading to greys which disappear into the white paper begging for marks. Graphite, its soft under my fingers, and charcoal splinters, there, there is an essence of a shape. memories. I step on broken charcoal the moment is lost and the mark on the paper becomes incomplete.

 I am obsessed with time, its passing and its passed, from where I stand to millions of years ago, I am in love with the landscape its history, with the continual shifting, with the creatures that roamed to the people that walked here before me. Yet these are different landscapes, for some have sunken to then grow and have the edges crumble away to wash into the sea, the sea that takes but does not return these cliffs, the arrow of time is a constant. Walking I feel the air on my face, when the sea is rough its spray blows into my hair, I can’t smell the sea, I never have been able to, the air just seems right, sand when barefoot sinks between your toes, its grains go unnoticed till you leave its domain.

I think of my hands, and the marks I make with them, this charcoal leaves traces where I have been, I am the point between my past and my present, in the present I am making I put my hands to work whilst I contemplate the past, the cracks in the landscape shape my work. I wish to draw the landscapes with clay, repeating, repeating, until I find a form.

I am lost, dealing with the unknown, I believe there is a direction emerging, I am grasping at things I know not, trying to articulate a feeling through another medium, some things remain constant, I am always trying to recreate an essence of a feeling, this is something that cannot be taught, only felt. I am a plant in the dark reaching out for the patches of sunlight, when it hits my leaves it is beautiful, but between the light I must grow.