When we collected the worn rocks that would become counterweights for our clothes line, we were delighted to have a souvenir from "our" foreshore, just a few hundred metres from" home. Each day we'd carry one or two home, until we had a neatly graded collection carefully matched in ascending order of weight and size.
They'd been rumbled into shape by the actions of the waves over centuries we figured, or quite possibly somewhat longer. As a bonus the sandstone toned perfectly with the colour of the nasty eighties brick of our house.
Sandstone...
Perhaps the very name should have sounded alarms in our heads, but it didn't. It turns out that our sandstone was not very ancient at all as these things go, and was actually comprised of a lot more sand and a lot less stone than is required if one is to have a stone hanging in the rain for any period of time,. It wasn't too long at all before cracks began to appear in our plan, and in our stones, some of which started to dissolve before our eyes. Eventually a couple of them disappeared entirely leaving saggy lines, and that will never do.
Perhaps the only thing I dislike in life more than a saggy line, is throwing away a piece of timber, no matter how improbable it might be that a use will be found for it in the future.
Therefore it was with great joy that I discovered some short offcuts of treated fence post in my stash, which I was pretty sure contained a water-worn stone shape within their scruffy exterior and I set to work to find that inner rock.
Perhaps Michelangelo might not approve, but I reckon they'd pass for a Henry Moore on a dark night.
Therefore it was with great joy that I discovered some short offcuts of treated fence post in my stash, which I was pretty sure contained a water-worn stone shape within their scruffy exterior and I set to work to find that inner rock.
Perhaps Michelangelo might not approve, but I reckon they'd pass for a Henry Moore on a dark night.
1 comment
Thanks for the little bit of sculptor edification!
Post a Comment