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My
father creates, in wood… many different things, He looks at fresh timber,
lying or stacked in his workshop and sees a finished creation, he smiles and
breathes in its smell.
Standing
with saw in hand he cuts, and then planes, he assembles different lengths and
widths,
The
blueprint in his mind guides him in turning a piece at high or low speeds, with
rough or delicate chisels and with sandpaper following a preconceived contour,
With
precision he applies delicate veneers of Yew and Ebony to follow and accentuate
the minimalist angles in a way that Modrian would have proud of.
He holds the pieces of wood as he works with them, touching them with a firm hand, sliding weathered fingers along their surfaces, blowing away splinters of unseen sawdust as if the wood were asking to be cleaned and as if his breath gave life to his creation, making the grain swell and accentuate its form. He clears his throat regularly and this too is part of the dialogue between creator and creation, and he listens for his work to tell him that it is now finished.
He
used to smoke whilst he worked, his pipe, but gave this up for health reasons,
but he still drinks tea.
And
if I stand and look at him working, he remains silent, and continues his private
conversation, and at times, when I have asked him to describe what
he
is doing, what will be the finished product and what are the stages he takes to
get there,
He
looks at me. I am asking him a question that is impossible for him to answer.
How can he translate the words spoken by the wood when I don’t hear a sound?
How can his son be so deaf, so blind to the instructions written in three
dimensions in grain and texture.
He smiles and shows me how to approach a piece of timber and how to start, and I ask myself how I will ever finish? whilst knowing I never will. Did I lose the ability to hear the timber, is it just me or am I of a disabled generation?