I am an artist of no renown.
The artist grows up in a small town famous for its freshwater springs. In this town there is a ceramics studio, and merely twenty steps from this studio is a narrow brook. Half-forsaken from its banks, lavished in silt, laced by dogwood and Virginia creeper, is the amphitheater. The troupe is always present now; lichen clumps in the theatron, water skeeters perform for the orchestra. Pools look up from concrete craters while plump roots usher from them handsome rivulets down slick, vertical steps. The performance goes on and no one attends.
This is where the artist makes sculpture and ceramics.