FROM WENCE IT CAME . . .

Sculpted a man’s head from a bar of soap (8th grade) . . . dug clay from a creek bed and molded it into a woman and pig (11th grade) . . . mesmerized by a sculptor  working a piece of soapstone at a rock show (in my late 20s) . . .

“Okay. That’s it! I’m doing it.” With hammer, chisels, a right-angle grinder and diamond sanding pads, I chip away stone, smooth many a curve . . . No guidelines, no plan, just trusting the process. WA-LA! Standing back, gratified, I smile. Oh, the high of experiencing art emerging from my soul.