2012 - 2015
When Stella died I needed what would contain her. An old marble collection was dumped from a shoe box and a towel wrapped within. We left for the woods.
It’s her still-warm body, curling sweetly, infinitely inside the case which occupies me. I have made things since. But whatever is made of it, only whispers of her lie still underground. I consider tilling it up. To see what is Death’s trail.
From lives unknown I’ve utilized other bones. What is in her space will stay stilling. Now, what’s possible? That night, upon returning inside, countless crystal eyes greeted from the floor.
We have no bird in our hands, living or dead. We have only you and our important question.
~Toni Morrison, Nobel Lecture