In a world where little children are made into suicide bombers, sex slaves and soldiers, where they starve to death for no other reason than that their skin is a certain color, or they were born to certain parents or in a certain place, how do I go on making art and beautiful objects with most of my time? The most honest answer is that I do what I do because I can’t sprout wings and fly to the moon.
I relate to people – not the peoples of the earth. In a way, my life is not due north or due south, but due others.
At the most basic level I am trading skill for utility and/or inspiration. Through my work someone is able to access a new freedom or vision in whatever small way this happens. My relation to others is through wood. Take me away from wood, and I am either dull or shrill.
I am dull because I am the original Johnny One Note and really have nothing to say or am not interested.
I am shrill because I feel the need to say go on the record, but don’t know what to say.
Wood surrounds me. I am wrapped in its manipulation and problems.
When people pass through my booth at festivals, they tell me how beautiful my work is and then add that I must love what I do.
This is not true.
I am working with wood and love it like I love breathing. It’s almost an involuntary movement on my part. It’s the only thing I’ve ever done – except for eating and sleeping – where I make sense to myself. I’m in my own skin.
My help for others is meted out through wood. I suspect we’re all this way through some medium or other.