The stuff that we portray and copy and assume about life can all change one day, and we spend the rest of our existence trying to figure it all out again. That’s the beauty of being an artist. We can work from a picture, like the carving and burning of a Cooper’s Hawk tail that I once did. What is, can be changed or recreated to what should be. Until, well, until.
One day, it gets turned upside down and the artwork has become you and you get up, dust yourself off, and watch as other people forget you accept your family and your God, of which by the way, you hope not and yet try to figure out where or what or who that God is found to be.
The institutional church, rightly and wrongly holds on to what was and struggles with what could be. And those of us, outside of that institution because of a curse, or maybe, just maybe, a blessing, stand up, dust ourselves off, as best we know how and are able, and yell to anyone that can hear, ‘WE MATTER TO EVERYONE INCLUDING TO THAT OLE CODGER THAT MADE US!’