It’s not easy to describe how many decisions have to be made before I feel like I’ve done anything good with the beautiful wood I find. The wave action on the surface and the total transformation of the structure of the wood itself through bacterial action makes it almost an intrusion into the natural process. My minimal drawing style with a torch or hot metal does, I feel, complete a process that started many years ago when the tree dropped a limb that wound up in water, floated across the lake and then came to rest at the shore before my feet. I eagerly search the shore as I walk along, but it is only when I stop for a very long time -and wait- that I actually see anything.
My current form of personal meditation is aided by the sound and sight of waves. They are never the same. The sound is a kind of music, but not composed music. It is wild music; untrained music. The solidity of this music is trapped in the wood, and when I draw on it the musical score that is in my head, I feel like I’ve at last expressed something that can’t be put into words.