I’m creating artifacts. Things to leave behind. Writing. Drawings. Carvings. Some exposed roots. Father. Grandfather. He made those things. He was an artist. Part of our story. I am casting a line into the future. Maybe it’s vanity, but I don’t think so. These things are an offering, a gift to the unborn from an ancestor. That’s what I’m doing early in the morning in the studio. At night in the little room at the back of the garage. Marking the cave walls.
No he didn’t make his living as an artist, but it ran deep in him. He could have. I can. I can feel it, the child says leaning over her page and beginning to draw.