Her fingers contain the oceans and her skirt billows as if in concert with the waves. What lies beneath I can only imagine. And I do. She brings the spinning globe to a stop. Is this a game or has her finger chosen her set course? The way her finger touches the globe seems so determined, but once again her face is lost in curls and I must guess her intention. And I hear a voice from the record player that says “she ain’t comin’ back again.”
This is my studio for exploring my work. Consider these drafts.