Clay he adds to with his hands. Stone he takes away from. Bronze he pours. Everything he has made is one of those three, or all of them at once on a wall.
A bronze relief five metres across. A ceramic column four and a half metres tall, made in 1987. Boulders quarried whole and married to cast bronze, standing above the hills at Jerash. And a glazed wheel seventeen centimetres across, from the same hands and the same clay.
Same argument, at every scale it will hold.
The tree lets them go. They come through the falling chairs. They rise off the head, off the boulder, off the wall. Forty-three years of something heavy holding, and something light getting away from it.
Hundreds of brass strips laid down like rays, darkening as they run out to the rim. And the birds turning inward, tightening, until they disappear into a hole at the middle of it.
He has never done this anywhere else.
Each room fills as the archive is built: title, material, dimensions, year, edition and location for every work, drawn from museum records, foundry casting books and his own captions. Nothing goes up without a source.
