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Sculpture: Clay, Marble, Metal on Marble, Steel, Stone, Other.
This fellow is going somewhere none of us will ever know. He’s getting there, before our very eyes, but not telling where it is. His head (of ‘fired clay – which seems a perfect description of the fitful and secret brain) stays down. His long antennae might be reliable, but seem hesitant, like the tapping sticks of blind men.
His body – of red marble carried down from the Alps by the river Durance, is striped with the scars of Time. A faint fragrance – of cinnamon that is mixed into his bed of sand – gives a hint of our own swifter, more transient experience that means nothing to this little Being, that he chooses simply to ignore.