A quiet field of found and made works.
Some shaped by hand, others noticed and held.
To appreciate what might be otherwise missed.
Embedded Files
Human.
Butter is cold. I wait til it becomes soft, watching the fog.
How long have you been weaving into the sky?
Art happens only when you are unbound.
A window is a camera that doesn’t record. Only the sensor matters.
At least, fallen petals can dance.
Report abuse