On Solitude

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When I am asked to say a few words about myself or my work, I feel like responding: “what need is there to translate into words what I am and what I do when it is all standing there, right in front of you, to touch with your eyes, see with your hands and feel with your heart?”

It needs no translating, except for my hands to make visible the invisible inside of me, to take what I do not know and give it form, thus making some order in the chaos of my mind.

During this moment of creating, of making visible, quite often “accidents” happen. Without these “accidents” much would remain “unsaid” because I do not know what is there to be revealed.

Then I feel like a child who has just discovered one of the great mysteries of life and shouts to whoever is there to listen: “look what I found!”

This summer I learned much about the great loneliness we all face. In the end, there is no one there to hear you cry out your sorrow, share your joy of discovery and life, to read your poem, sing your song. Nobody but yourself.

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