Grant Hayunga

There are ancient riffs at play...
plant, animal, and mineral.
Commuted as light,
where feeling is taking form.
Resonant vibrations
stolen from elemental materials -
willow vines for charcoals,
loose fur drawing lines in bee’s wax.
Distillations of tree resin,
refined oils, and lacquers,
reanimating as beasts on the land,
pointing to the sublime.
Suspended pigments
and suspended disbelief.
Raw linen, and wood pulp,
milled into paper and cloth.
Rabbit skin glue for sizing,
with crushed marble plasters
making up the ground.
Because in the end,
as in the beginning,
there is only matter
speaking when spoken to.