In the hand alone, one recognizes Life's contours, its history. As Rilke wrote of Rodin's sculptures, it is in these appendages, these fragments, that the Whole is best understood. The supramaterial moves by way of refraction, an imposition accessed through attention.

A banal gothic pervades things. Renderings of nature, nation, territory serve as living record of dead and dying sentiment, will. The dead refracts stilted and staccato, perhaps according to a rhythm and logic indecipherable to you and me.

When a poor image of flowers—possibly hand-drawn, but more likely generated, printed onto cheap vinyl and turned into commodity—stirs the spirit, I feel for a moment the depth of the maelstrom; its poison I breathe, the labyrinth in which I play.