A Scots Pine at least 100 years old, an accompaniment to domesticity close to buildings. Marked by comings and goings, but growing at a tilt amidst power lines and heating oil tanks, had started to creak and knock on our roof. It’s crown was heavy with rot and it’s years and finally it was felled for safety reasons.
However, in memory a 10 foot stump was left and over three and a half months, during the Covid summer, I carved it to a design, part planned, but also in flux. It contained at least a dozen blacksmith made six inch nails, which had sunk to the heart-wood, as new growth covered them. Perhaps they held a sign once, or a washing line? I heard as well about strings of lights illuminating outdoor dances during The Second World War, when troops were billeted nearby. At the end of the day, I didn’t know why, but carving them out influenced where some forms fell. At those moments, pulling them felt like extracting time to leave what was left in the form of this sculpture. Other hands had influenced its growth and use and my hands now allowed them to let go.
Stephen Kirin 