Dirt and Water

My hands are filthy—covered in red clay. I shape, and carve, and smooth. I can see and feel my insubstantial imaginations, ideals, and stories becoming solid—tangible. This feeling of achievement and self expression is my inspiration. I see a lump of moist clay and I envision all it could be: a heart, an ideal, a heritage. I want to counteract the world's evils, create their opposites. I want to hear people say "despite" instead of "because" in any way they can—a speech, a drawing, an action.

I'll make the sun smile in a hurricane, the angry sea save a lost ship, and make Heaven exist in Hell. The clay is my voice and pen, the words I can't write, and the speech I'm unable to deliver. When speaking my words are halting—caught behind my lips. When writing there is no adjective strong enough—no mighty verb adequate enough. But with my clay and tools I can sculpt what I can't describe, explain without speaking.

My hands are filthy, they are covered in my secrets and creations—my hopes and dreams. I'll wash the clay from my hands—but these things will always permeate my skin and soul. I strive not to force change but to visualize opportunity and hope. I want to inspire dreams; I want people to hope again and become excited for an ideal.

This ability, to give an insubstantial ideal solidity created from dirt and water, is in itself inspiring. I use products of this earth to create visualizations of its potential. My hands are, indeed, filthy; covered in the materials of my art—my essence. I guide the clay, and the clay guides me. My hands force contours and structure but sometimes the clay disobeys me and shows me what she wants to see in this world. The clay is of the earth, and essentially it's the earth we forge together into impossibilities.

I aspire to inspire, and clay is my inspiration to do so.