Change is always hidden within us.
Ιt can be found in the moment, it is dynamically reinforced by weaknesses, suspensions, phobias. But it is not lost. It is there, waiting for the start, the union of soul, body, dream, ready to swirl everything with its power.
At this point new forms, new pleasures, new perspectives and unexpected glimpses are defined.
Like cotton. The humble flower of a plant that is lush and delicate. Raw material for fabrics and fibers that will cover the body and connect edges. Like the clay. Primordial, malleable, witness of our mortality. It can be easily molded and loves its new shape, which breaks down and breaks down if somebody try to push it away.
And they can mingle. You never know when, where, how. Then the cotton will reconstitute its beauty, it will give the provocation of its purity, and attach itself to flexible clasps by placing the clay and, passing through it, tighten it into its lap as far as it holds without breaking it. And the clay? The clay will probably pretend that it wants to be tied, but it will wrap around the cotton fibers and weigh them so that they are not easily dragged and frayed.
Even if they split at some point, they would have the mark of their union engraved on them … A little clay color on the cotton, a few fibers on the dry clay. Samples of sculpture, evidence of a unique coexistence.