Form 2 | #1
Marble (Italy, Carrara)
27’’×5 1/2’’×5 1/2’’
2024
27’’×5 1/2’’×5 1/2’’
2024
When I teach a beginner sculpture class, I often give my students an assignment — push your form to a breaking point. Break the stone. It’s a strange task, isn’t it? There’s a perfectly rational reason — you need to learn where your breaking point is, and you can only do it by pushing the stone too far. When they do break their stone, the whole class applauds. But there’s a deeper, more personal reason.
The piece you see is the first sculpture I broke — after years of carving stone myself and teaching others. The piece was almost finished, and I was in the last stages of hand-sanding, bringing it to a perfect shine. And there it was — broken in my hands.
Pure agony, worse than any heartbreak I had felt before. Panic. Regret. Blame. And more regret that lasted for days.
But unless you live through it enough times to see it as part of the process, you never realize that not every piece is meant to be whole — and maybe, just maybe, every scar and crack is another part of the narrative.
The elongated part of that piece is a beautiful shade of green. Green composite is a bit less stable than white marble — that’s where the scar is, exactly where it should be.
The piece you see is the first sculpture I broke — after years of carving stone myself and teaching others. The piece was almost finished, and I was in the last stages of hand-sanding, bringing it to a perfect shine. And there it was — broken in my hands.
Pure agony, worse than any heartbreak I had felt before. Panic. Regret. Blame. And more regret that lasted for days.
But unless you live through it enough times to see it as part of the process, you never realize that not every piece is meant to be whole — and maybe, just maybe, every scar and crack is another part of the narrative.
The elongated part of that piece is a beautiful shade of green. Green composite is a bit less stable than white marble — that’s where the scar is, exactly where it should be.
