How can artists expect to be any good if they don't live in the world? There no such animal as an artist who isn't intensely curious about life. My brain buzzes with questions every minute. And has been fueled with leaping flames since the day I was born. The art that comes out is only a few drops compared to what remains inside. If it takes a hundred pounds of rose petals to make an ounce of perfume that is roughly what it's like to turn brute sense impressions into a poem or painting. Maximum pressure, on maximum, carefully chosen, material. 24/7. Year after year. This piece is somehow the result of my feelings over the past few weeks. The agony swirling over the face of the earth. How can it be ignored? Title: a translated famous line from Verlaine: "The long sobs of the violins of autumn." Welded bronze and steel fixed to plastered and painted wood.