Sometimes a stone speaks louder than a voice.
As an artist, I draw inspiration from my surroundings – from moments shared with family, friends, and acquaintances. Sometimes, that’s a celebration. Other times, it’s a struggle. But during my recent study trip, something else happened:
I connected with history.
A path once walked long ago, and one I now found myself on.
This journey took me to the Amalfi Coast, Naples, and Paestum – places where layers of culture intertwine: Greek, Roman, Etruscan, Lucanian. One of our stops was Paestum – once a thriving city, the city of goddesses and ancient ruins.
There, among timeworn stones, remnants, and memories that didn’t seem to belong to me… I came upon a bust.
A torso, hollow inside – yet deeply familiar.
It mirrored a photographic sculpture of The Runner – a sculpture I posted just a few weeks ago.
We often think we are the first.
But we are not.
Still, I looked with eyes that felt as if they had seen it before.
I had seen this before.
My sulpture, reflected in a past I never lived.
As if something ancient called to me – softly, without words.
A whisper across time and stone.
And now, writing this down, I suddenly understand:
this is the beginning of my next piece.
Sometimes a stone speaks louder than a voice.
Where was I standing, when this already existed?
