Reclaiming the forgetting.
Reaching into the recesses of memory. Finding forgiveness in the clay body, in the imperfect body. A reminder that nearly all things in life are both divinely funny and tragic. And so we must be playful.
My dad would have found it funny to become a marble. A celestial orb of wonder that his grandkids that he never knew, but would have loved with a bursting heart, could play with.
He found a lot of things funny.
He understood The Mystery
He understood curiosity
And hands at work
And hands that create
And hands that tend to a desert garden
But he never understood the hold that drugs had on him. He never understood how to not need them.
We orbit, never viewing all sides fully.
We hover here in this strange time. I think though, that time has always been strange. We are now particularly and peculiarly separated from our deeper past, not knowing the soil that our ancestors knew. And so I look out, and back, and up, and try to peer through time to get a glimpse of the hands that worked and the eyes that peered forward, looking equally hard at who might be here, thirteen generations on allowing the very same sun to sink into our bones.
Pit fired, hand built micaceous clay from northern New Mexico
Marbles made with my dad’s ashes by Joshua Cravens
Wool felt, stringing the spirits together
Prices for clay works available upon request
Marbles not for sale
