The studio is becoming a prehistoric cave. Anyone who now enters I take their hand and imprint it on the wall with charcoal. It is a spiritual silence as I spread their fingers to get inbetween. It has become a monastery of writings, words written in the early dawn. The words we don't know why we write them, we just do, we want the spaces to have faces, to have life, to cry out like the stones, mumbling and moving like palms. The gospel, something not of this earth, not contaminated with politics, something like prehistoric artists created instinctively.

There, the Truth. The Love. The Beauty.