My Language

It’s a visual language, not spoken. I understand it. But never hear it. I know it when I see it.

A file in the maker’s hand is communication. The tool and the surface it’s rubbing up against.

To rearrange metal or to blend it seamlessly is a quiet yet deliberate chat held daily at my bench.

I’m the eavesdropper listening to a conversation about strokes and shapes and file marks.

There’s a perfect amount of effort. It’s controlled and unscripted simultaneously. Like jazz.

Look closely. Every scratch tells a story. But only one scratch tells you the story just ended.

All This By Hand
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