Composing a new soul out of shattered identities.

I feel the rock trying to puncture my shoes. I have to be careful where to place my next step. The unmovable rock helps me as I’m unable to walk without thinking. Walking without looking isn’t an option.

The land is dry, it hasn’t rained for months and the thorns, thistles and stubborn oak bushes dominate the area. The high grass is yellow and what’s left of the artichoke flowers are golden seed balls.
Water is missing and the plants are pleading for it.

A have a daily walk with the dogs between abandoned houses and hunting shacks. Lots of bullet cartridges can be found. Nasty things, left overs from a kill. Red, purple, green, you’ve got them in all kinds of colours, shimmering through the natural hues of the bushes and plants. They don’t belong here.

Walk by walk I begin to understand how humans interfere with nature, most of the time in a rude and ruthless way. The stories of the stuff that’s left behind are hard to tell but they’re often sad. A broken wheelchair in A neglected almond field, a dolls arm burned by the heat of the sun. I find lots of things and wish to give them a new identity, a new life.

I collect the discarded entities I find and bring them together, like a matchmaker I try to find the best combinations letting new characteristics surface in the objects. Carefully I compose a new soul out of the shattered identities of the things that come my way.

The soul of things is a part of us. We make; we break; we throw away. I wish, I seek for the mystery of the universe in a torn burlap. A reflection of who we are and the world we live in.

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