35 years ago at the Saratoga training track, I dragged a blue tarp puffed with horse apples.
Calloused hands, impish grin, Bowie hair and aire. My first husband appeared, offering to help.
Later,
he pulled the plaster casting of the sculpture “A Fallen Tear” out from inside his biker jacket.
I slid my skeleton horse drawing out from a paper bag.
We exchanged our art treasures, hoping the other would "get it".
His line cut sensual.
(wetting the oil clay with a brush. Smoothing.)
My ink weaved.
Our art clicked.
17 years of marriage,
we carried sketchbooks.
Clumps of oil clay shaped as horses damaged by our moves.
Yet, non-drying, it holds our touch and debris.
Stroking, shaping our hopes—sketches and clay clumps became
bronze sculptures.
Some clumps still wait to become metal.
We are artists and like art
we are in progress.
It has taken 35 years—
To view more images from this podcast please visit
The Water Horses- 35 years later