THE SOLITUDE OF MANUFACTURING
In ill-fated times, when the tinsel in which a vain civilization drowns is consumed in its brilliance before the applause and the voracity of its notables, the solitude of manufacturing has always served as a niche of spiritual resistance, a reserve of primeval virtue, resilient knowledge in seemingly ordinary custody.
These pieces are from that ancestral niche. Made by the heat “of the hand”—like every caress— almost nothing in them is form. The tortuous sequence of a lifetime is required for a precise gesture. That is why these amalgamated earthen gems ought to be understood as a sublimated model of corporality. Perhaps this would allow us to access the narrative that is us, and to encode the incisions, not so much as drawings, but as open wounds left by a silent war; or to identify the shell of a lonely animal that masks its soreness beneath the slippery framework of an ownerless landscape; or to see in its deposits the howl of a mass that begs for company from its misunderstood and arresting organicity.
Probably the mounds encrypt the breath of a kind of brief existence.
Of course, to an anxious gaze, they will appear as objects for people in a hurry and therefore suggest the illusion of a lesser use. But every mud pellet here holds the subtle performance of a master at the margins of a devastated community. Burnished with the ashes of a fierce disobedience, they will survive our dispersal as fine relics of these ill-fated times.