Halos, crosses, rainbows and umbrellas all underline relationships, or at least hover over them.  The checkerboard pattern of the dark and light stones is laid out for the game of life.  The explosion edged granite particles juxtaposed with the round rolled tidal rock is a canvas for the creation.  A place to play.  Just like skin!

The surfboard hints at smooth sailing, smooth riding, but just as the ink jet pierces the skin and the artist waits for the wave to subside —  the colours pattern-crest rolling toward the image.  A hint of shadow, a pointillism for the skin, a baby blue colouring that not even waves can create.  The crude sawhorse holds the beaten up-cycled board.  A carpenter’s son might have blushed at the rickety bit of engineering.  Somehow the thought crossed my mind.

In a small crèche in the Hacienda San Angel a signed cross passes before the worshipping pilgrim.  Located at the crossroads of mind, knowledge and history the icon was erected and re-erected for centuries as a monumental reminder of the journey.  A reminder that the “way up and the way down are the same”.  The Heraclitan fragment echoed by Eliot in Dry Savages.Time can be both creation and resurrection.  The images of apples and rivers hinting at the agony of living. Between the lines the way of human empathy and shared experience.  The communal monuments of remembrance, those monuments of stones, monuments of stories for our children are stacked at the tide line.

The jagged edges of experience rounded by memory and water into the sands of time.  This waiting for stones to roll away into sand takes more than a lifetime.  Yet the waves wash across our horizons, always coming.