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Sculpture and stonemasonry workshop

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Sketches of Spain



The series is created under the influence of a stay in Spain and therefore created as a tribute to the magical effect, the country can have.

It is also a cadeau to Miles Davis' music with the same title.

"Sketches of Spain" is a paraphrase of the Walpurgis Night, where the witches (the inner demons) appear in the (Moon) light and drive us to a short-term frenzy.

In my story it passes - dreamy visions dance on the ashes of the inner demons, and the Sun chases all the shadows on the run.



The story of a transformation

2010 displayed the same phase of the moon at year-end as a good many years ago: Full moon on the longest night and the shortest day of the year.

Back then it was spent in northwest Jutland — what, in mythical language, might have been called Ultima Thule. As described, the landscape was lashed and scarred and inhospitable. This was the absolute zero of the soul.

As a counterbalance to the general hysteria at this time of the year, it was an intense experience discovering the dependence on the season, the solstice and the phase of the moon, whose sway we are still under as creatures of the natural world.

Each picture is accompanied by a chapter of The Swan Conch –A Lunar Transformation. Click on the image to read the story.

It is late in the year, late in December—the shortest day and longest night of the year. A clump of trees in an impassable landscape stand with crowns peaked together. The rough dressing dished out by the storms has given them a humble pose. Field and meadow have been lashed into a scarred, vicious surface. The howling winds of this longest night tear shady beings across the skies on wild rides. The darkness of this most harsh night has exposed every sound.  Well into the night silence emerges. The crowns have not become entangled after all. From a distance the bare branches made the racket of antlers; close up they freeze to a glassy clink. The foremost tree stands out from the group. It is scarcely that humble, but was once more unyielding. The stillness imperceptibly draws the moon with it. There is a grumpy creaking in the tree. The stillness puffs forth a cloud from the clear night sky. Enticingly, sweepingly, she envelops the tree, spellbinding it with her airy promises.  A storm erupts. The tree arches its roots and bends with the wind, as best it has learned. But it’s as if every effort to stand fast loosens the roots a little more from their firm grip on the soil, and every time it succumbs to the wind it drifts away with it instead of giving in. But this is no real wind. This tempest is different from the usual storm. The face of the tree comes up and out, agonizing in fear and pain. Turned outwards and brought to the fore, its countenance travels up towards the night, fluttering aimlessly. Rootless, it is carried along.
When the wind gives out, the soul is ripped to shreds. When the soul splits, the wind whistles but a single note. The tree counts years and memories. Recalling dark-light and other times. Rising from the depths of the poverty of its drought. Climbing step by step, transforming now into other creatures, from tree to bull, from bull to capercailzie. And before long the albatross’s wingspan will be spread out, and the journey towards an inner can begin. When the morning sun breaks, outer life awakens and bestirs itself, while the night sky’s moon has drawn inner power from lethargy.  Winged, now plummeting down, now in gliding flight, the inner ravine of fear is passed. Arriving at a mild and breezy dawn, welcomed by a hand-fingered tree. Haphazardly subjected to a cloud of womanly caprice, utterly exposed without screen or shelter. Note the moon’s corona. Ascend the throne of life.  There are moments when the rapidly receding horizon of time is embraced, clasped and hugged by the wingspan of transfiguration. Then joy dances from sorrow. Desire hoots at pain, gravity is choked by effervescing laughter and longing finds its hardship under the flower-fragrant tree brimming with buds. And eventually the heavily adhesive tide retreats and a gentle gust of relief floats across the lunar valley.
From the lunar ash and the fall in tide, the swan conch climbs, gliding with hermaphrodite swagger, with the dignity of a king-queen, from the depths of the bivalve’s bosom roars the unending music of the spheres. Mythical power wells from the vault of the shell. In the creature’s wingspan, the eyes of the five senses view with the sight that sees across time, with the hearing that hears sanguinely, with the feeling of the world around, with the scent of reminiscence, and with the taste of life’s beating pulse. And a new year can commence.


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