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It’s been 10 or so years since my first encounter with iron.
My first memory of iron - it was playground equipment. I felt a sort of lighting shock when I remembered the scent of iron on my hands.
I recall being tearful from a sense that had I encountered something nostalgic. It gave birth to my strong desire to be on the same wavelength as iron.
By continuing to stand face to face with iron, I began to see a variety of connections.
Gradually, my attitude towards making work developed.
Iron that falls from the cosmos; iron dug up from the depths of the earth;
iron sand arriving from the river…
From where it’s created, where would it travel next…
I feel a loving empathy towards this iron, wanting to rust and return to the earth.
Researching the history of iron also became my life’s work.
Iron was used from territorial wars to culture and civilization as well as tearing up mountains; when I grew conscious of this, I discovered the sort of troublesome material I was dealing with.
It’s said that one who conquerors iron conquerors the land, and as such it’s something needed for human life and culture.
Depending on use, they end up as weapons.
I thought through these things, and there were times I struggled through the notion of living through making.
Days and days of nearly shattering my body and soul. After half a year of recuperating, my conclusion was to face the paradox - in spite of my suffering.
I create: feeling the origins and travels of the iron, the metals.
I only create where I can see the flow of the hands it passes.
I stand at the intersection; I want to continue standing between man and iron.
I use iron, so I’m grateful to the planet
I use fire, so I’m grateful to the wind
This is how I want to spend my days, in order for me to coexist with iron
We find truths in the shadows we struggle to see.
We won’t find it staring at its surface.
A voyage returning to the sea, the earth
To cohabit this planet, in which the large tree that once saved me
can comfortably stretch out its roots.
Where does metal come from, and where does it go.
The act of seeing, feeling, listening - this is my ‘making’.
My being here
the continuation and beginning of everything