A story personally peculiar, sitting in-between yet of the culture …
I saw a hero once
“The armour, firmly encasing the body… a cloth undertunic hanging down in deep folds…”
Historical documents say he was conquered. Maybe he was persuaded to another way of thinking.
“He had bitterness for his evil idolatry and dilation of his country…”
He was from Thebes…
In a room below ground, a process takes place.
Some methods are used… But since the tools are inadequate and the framework non theoretical, it’s difficult to know what comes first?
Can it be designed - then produced?
Does geometry or symmetry play part?
‘Form-blind’ working in the abstract is the only means available…
Drums resonate through the corridor…
In other circumstances it might be meditative
Does sacrifice have a sound track?
Maybe an intervention needs to take place here…
A maker befriended his model
“He possessed a marked propensity for creating legends…”
He told a story of a substance invested with great symbolism. Coveted by many some saw the potential in harnessing its power and worked hard to master its craft.
He continues this tale with a king, whose appetite for the substance was insatiable. The king lost his crown – not defending his kingdom but in a freakish happenstance.
“He walked bare foot through ice and snow from the monastery…. “
He prayed to get it back.
Another ‘hero’ put thoughts to paper
He dissuaded others from doing the same
Just get stuck in, try your best - sweep the remains aside…
Trying too hard could kill it…
When did ‘it’ come into the picture?
Lets be methodical about this and list the properties…
Protected by interlocking circles, He took on a colour for the collective.
Sadly his “lance, shield and lower parts of the legs are now missing…”
His arms still work but he’s is unable to march towards the new frontier
All things should have the dignity of a name
If chosen correctly good influences can rub off
There is strength in numbers
What can boredom unleash?
I was taught some rudimentary skills once but my memory fails me.
“You have to persist in being truthful to your intentions”
What ever they are…
Without a clock I utilize ancient timekeeping methods
But with imprecise increments, there’s no idea how long it’s taken to arrive at ‘Untitled’
A sign would be welcome…
Autopilot is engaged, a black object sits in the corner analysis of its contents brought few results initially.
‘A day comes when I realise I have a corpse in my hands – relics of a movement in art that is now passed…’
Despite the bad treatment his features survive in the ole polychromy
He wears a plaited band upon his tightly curled hair - some would consider it course.
He looks awkward in his attire
On his knees his suffering is approved
A test for a knight of Faith
How damaged can something become?
Despite the decay he is found useful
But upon investigation there isn’t clue to how he came about
In tatters he’s handed over for remedial measures, these include hairspray, pins and a book.
His scraps have currency, set in a box and put on display to ‘reform’ many characters.
Curious fingers fumble leaving him a little less ‘present’ after each outing…
Interactivity is proving dangerous
Trading off divine provenance he is peddled to raise funds for a ‘good cause’
Someone writes an eloquent assessment of the situation
The critic’s remarks are cutting, drawing attention to his poor condition and failure to fight to the bitter end.
And to those who wish to vicariously draw upon a treasury of merit
FIND YOUR OWN DAMN CRUSADE
‘He’ begins to disintegrate under too much scrutiny
Existing in doubt
What’s left could be dead or worse ordinary…