concrete variations









The line is a meditation of course, it’s the process of sifting, picking and laying that’s the thing, with stones massaging my bare feet and palms, elevated on the bank, back-baked by the sun, ruffled and caressed by the never ending breezes, and the endless hiss and stone sucking bass breath of the waves that eat at the waters edge: Oscillating up-beach/down-beach through ebb and flood, pulled by the mighty sun and moon. My thoughts return to Roger, who passed not long since, a great man a mentor, an understander of all this sparse beauty, this infinity of moments. This line is my tribute to him, with heart felt thanks…


The sea has re-minded me that all things must pass.

As I sift these stones, palming through the inconceivable ages of geology,
I think on the small piece of Norwegian mountain that I hold glittering in my hand, carried by the vast creeping rivers of ice across the grinding flatlands, year upon year, mile upon mile, to be dropped by the melt water and then buried, unearthed and then tossed, polished and ground by a million tides until this very now, seen and grasped by a warm human hand.

Am I the first to have touched it?


flood and ebb

I heard rumours of the the Line having vanished, my immediate thought was of Art hating barbarians, and then I remembered the joyous release of destruction, and thought it must have been some energetic, high spirited rout of carefree youthful fun.

When I arrived, I found tentative repairs of well wishers had reformed a seedling Line, and the obvious simple scattering of the sea was the cause of the Lines demise: A month of persistent northerlies must have raised up the spring tide to scatter and seethe through the high shingle.

And so I set to work again…