I have a strange relationship with statuary. (This should surprise no one; I have a strange relationship with myriad inanimate objects.) Artwork – sculpture – somehow speaks to me of my love of rocks, the rocks that I manage to collect from spots as diverse as beaches and parking lots, the rocks which are in jars and along windowsills in my house. Sculpture is only deliberately shaped rocks, after all. I frequently visited the marble statuary at the Glasgow Botanics, which are Victorian era botanical glasshouses in the city where I lived. Each time I came through the main glasshouse where he stands, I would greet this little boy. I called him George for awhile until I realized that the statue was supposed to be of the Madonna and Child. (Yes, I know. Minus points for me.)
But, actually, when you think about it, George works. The Child was supposed to be human, right? Just like us? Ordinary, a baby clinging with sticky fingers and downcast eyes to his Mama, shy of the strangers chucking him under the chin… What’s in a name, after all?
the way we begin –
innocence: falls, wails, smiles. Growth
is always the same
