I have been asked to write about my life working between two studios. My annual migration to carve in Italy has been based on pretense. With no inheritance to fund my forays, I just pretend I am going. When friends and acquaintances ask when I am next going to Italy, I often reply, “I just got back-- and you want me to leave again?” But when my visa card is paid off from the previous trip, I make up some answer like “perhaps in September” and if I repeat the words often enough, the universe conspires, I sell enough sculpture, and I make reservations.
For forty years, I have returned to Carrara to be reabsorbed into the layering patina of time. Walking the streets and vicoli (alleyways) where marble carvers have lived for centuries, looking upward to the light changing atmosphere throughout a day on the rugged mined-out mountains of marble, I feel a part of this place. I am not a visitor or tourist,