This will be a different sort of entry I suppose because instead of me taking all of the pictures, all of the pictures are of me at work. I had originally intended to post only my photography on this blog, but I realized at some point that the subject is always at least half responsible for the quality of the image. Check out the pics: Photos taken by Alisa Wei
A nice portrait of me
That's Richard on the right gleefully feeding me a banana.
At work, existing within my canvas
My own hands working the earthI said earlier that I drew a lot of creative inspiration from this day, not only in respect to sculpture, but also with my writing. I decided to draw from my experience working the earth and I ended up with this short story using the face I made as a sort of central theme.
The Face of God
In the early throes of morning, a handsome young businessman in his mid to late thirties staggers into a quiet glade and collapses under the weight of the world. A striking figure he is in his pressed shirt, freshly wrinkled, face down in the mud, his patterned tie cinched tightly around his neck, a shining serpent choking the life from his body. His face, if you could see it, a picture of agony, eyes clasped tightly together, his mouth misshapen, fixed in a silent scream. His sorrows, drowned in a flood of aspirin and cranberry juice. On the verge of death, he writhes helplessly… alone. The world won’t remember another corporate suicide.
He is blinded by a white light before him. His body floats like a plastic bag dancing in the wind, as his consciousness enters a world of undeniable beauty. A forest of sorts as full of life as anywhere on earth bathed in a golden benevolent light. Alone, he wanders through an empty streambed, the earth below his bare feet a rich orange (the sort color that looks as though it would taste good). Just beyond his fingertips is a palette of hues fit to satisfy any artist. Living color, a breathing mosaic of tones splayed out across the color wheel.
It dawns upon him slowly like waves breaking on the shores of a distant lake what must be done. Stabbing madly into the ground, chunks of earth take flight, shining seams of mica rain down from above. The earth is alive, even as it is broken, removed so unceremoniously from its home. Like a madman, he reaches into this mass of sifting earth, screaming aloud as imagined(?) insects bite into his flesh. Particles of clay stain his hands, swarming like bees, entering his very pores. His skin is almost translucent stretched tightly across pale blue knuckles, bony, a network of purple veins breathing life into his fingertips. He is primal man.
His hands, no longer mere appendages, rather instruments of creation.
Brought to his knees, as if by command, he begins to work the clay. His eyes trace the outline of a face: the face of god. His fingers bring forth meaning from the earth in the form of a gnarled nose twisted with age, his thumbs busy at work shaping vacant eye sockets. He gives him sight with a pair of almond shaped skeletons of leaves once living. His left pupil a white germinating seed, his right a brilliant piece of mica mined from the earth. His sunken mouth gapes from behind red rose(y) lips and rows of fern leaves double as teeth. His beard of moss belies his infinite wisdom. Who could say that this face - yes face of the earth -was not alive?
As if swallowed by the ground, he is jerked abruptly from his dream world by a torrent of rain falling from the heavens. Disoriented he rolls over in his soiled clothes only to see a work of art of undeniable beauty. The face from his dreams, with its unquestioning gaze, now looks him up and down, sizing him up. The creator has been recreated just as he was once molded from the very same clay.
The rain continues to fall as cascades of water begin to rush through the streambed, destroying his creation before his very eyes. The face of god… A man reborn, the man shoulders the weight of the world and staggers to his feet. Emerging from the woods he moves forward with a purpose, like a hunter stalking his prey. With his life in shambles he knows now that there is still reason to live. Perhaps he will leave this city. Maybe he will move to South America, and spend the rest of his days on the beach with scantily clad brown women and cold drinks with little umbrellas in them. Perhaps he will become a writer or a painter or even a sculptor.
Lost in his thoughts, he wanders onward through the rain, cutting through back yards, crossing streets with reckless abandon. Suddenly, he is blinded by a white light before him. He squints his eyes to the tune of screeching tires on wet pavement. Thrown violently into the air, his body floats like a plastic bag dancing in the wind, as his consciousness enters a world of undeniable beauty. Just beyond his fingertips is a palette of hues to satisfy any artist. His body collapses, broken under the weight of the world. The rain continues to fall in torrents and his blood (the sort of color that looks as if it would taste good) is washed away before his very eyes - the eyes of god.
He is blinded by a white light before him. His body floats like a plastic bag dancing in the wind, as his consciousness enters a world of undeniable beauty. A forest of sorts as full of life as anywhere on earth bathed in a golden benevolent light. Alone, he wanders through an empty streambed, the earth below his bare feet a rich orange (the sort color that looks as though it would taste good). Just beyond his fingertips is a palette of hues fit to satisfy any artist. Living color, a breathing mosaic of tones splayed out across the color wheel.
It dawns upon him slowly like waves breaking on the shores of a distant lake what must be done. Stabbing madly into the ground, chunks of earth take flight, shining seams of mica rain down from above. The earth is alive, even as it is broken, removed so unceremoniously from its home. Like a madman, he reaches into this mass of sifting earth, screaming aloud as imagined(?) insects bite into his flesh. Particles of clay stain his hands, swarming like bees, entering his very pores. His skin is almost translucent stretched tightly across pale blue knuckles, bony, a network of purple veins breathing life into his fingertips. He is primal man.
His hands, no longer mere appendages, rather instruments of creation.
Brought to his knees, as if by command, he begins to work the clay. His eyes trace the outline of a face: the face of god. His fingers bring forth meaning from the earth in the form of a gnarled nose twisted with age, his thumbs busy at work shaping vacant eye sockets. He gives him sight with a pair of almond shaped skeletons of leaves once living. His left pupil a white germinating seed, his right a brilliant piece of mica mined from the earth. His sunken mouth gapes from behind red rose(y) lips and rows of fern leaves double as teeth. His beard of moss belies his infinite wisdom. Who could say that this face - yes face of the earth -was not alive?
As if swallowed by the ground, he is jerked abruptly from his dream world by a torrent of rain falling from the heavens. Disoriented he rolls over in his soiled clothes only to see a work of art of undeniable beauty. The face from his dreams, with its unquestioning gaze, now looks him up and down, sizing him up. The creator has been recreated just as he was once molded from the very same clay.
The rain continues to fall as cascades of water begin to rush through the streambed, destroying his creation before his very eyes. The face of god… A man reborn, the man shoulders the weight of the world and staggers to his feet. Emerging from the woods he moves forward with a purpose, like a hunter stalking his prey. With his life in shambles he knows now that there is still reason to live. Perhaps he will leave this city. Maybe he will move to South America, and spend the rest of his days on the beach with scantily clad brown women and cold drinks with little umbrellas in them. Perhaps he will become a writer or a painter or even a sculptor.
Lost in his thoughts, he wanders onward through the rain, cutting through back yards, crossing streets with reckless abandon. Suddenly, he is blinded by a white light before him. He squints his eyes to the tune of screeching tires on wet pavement. Thrown violently into the air, his body floats like a plastic bag dancing in the wind, as his consciousness enters a world of undeniable beauty. Just beyond his fingertips is a palette of hues to satisfy any artist. His body collapses, broken under the weight of the world. The rain continues to fall in torrents and his blood (the sort of color that looks as if it would taste good) is washed away before his very eyes - the eyes of god.
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