Back at the bench. The next commission was started last year. Friday. Here I am. Sunday. So many orders and names and piles of material. They run together. They all know each other.
Each off-cut of metal from one start remembers the leftover abrasives used decades ago. And all the broken drill bits. They’re part of this. As I reach the last line, and fantasize – because that’s what it is, fantasy – about next. I’m reminded that the bicycle isn’t what I hand over for money.
These crumbs are the bicycle too. Is my task to remove things? Or is it to add them? All of this lives together, with me, in my workroom.
All This By Hand