Forrest Snyder: "Three Breaths and Under"

Some months ago, I experienced a vivid memory of playing with my early childhood friend Nathan in an old corn crib that stood on his family's farm. The more I remembered, the farther I traveled. Not physically, of course, but to that 'other' place that existed once for two adventurous five year olds. Yanking the sticking, rickety door open, and stepping up into the building was an act of faith - a tumbling through the wardrobe into Narnia, if you will. Door closed, our previous world vanished as we climbed around on wooden crates and broken tools. Cosmic dust ebbed in the rays of sunlight, allowing us to see what needed to be seen.

In addition, I've been trying to consider all aspects of my chosen primary material, clay. It does some great things - gets slippery, sticks to things, stains them, smells, dries, cracks. We ignore most of these abilities, or, at the very least, call them problems, things to be avoided. I wanted to flip that around and embrace one or more of clay's deprecated attributes.

In this latest project, "Three Breaths and Under," I hoped to combine memories - faulty to be sure - and one of the very real aspects of clay, cracking, - faulty by default - into a transforming sense of place. So, I built my corn crib. In redefining space and marking of time, not unlike memories, through clay, the crib performed pleasingly well. The cracks were descriptive of the creation, beautiful on their own, but not breath taking. What developed from smooth, damp, cool walls was an completely unexpected gift - a "star field" of great depth. In the dark, with light filtering through the fissures, one tumbled through to the 'other' once again.