Seems like another world has embraced me - a time where plagues were rampant, Napoleon landed, a time where tampanade and truffles are ordinary fare. Only the olive spread and dark aromatic culinary delight are the norm, as is the well-worn architecture.
A labyrinth-like geography, this town has four corners, a plaza on each. Cloistered in one of the towering houses, I share an Ikea furnished living space with two other artists, one American, another Irish. We each have a separate studio, and mine is shown above (exterior). I have only visited my converted donkey stable, and wonder what kind of work will be produced in this stone chamber.
Extreme sensory perceptions are rampant as I walk up the cobbled, steep hill to the place where I can concentrate on sculpture again. The heavy stones calm me from my mysterious angst. History presses on this West Coast inhabitant. I need to dig deep into my ancestral past to find the sculpture within me.
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