After she had hollowed out the heart of stone all along the ley lines, the fractures, the tide lines, she re-invoked them. Laid out wires, meticulously tight-roped to criss-cross the void as geometric space
Sometimes she gave us the beauty of nothingness. Smoothed hollows in a chiselled caress and all the time accentuating boundaries. Her outlines bold and strong, withholding inwardness
In the sculpture garden, an opportune spider took one such hollow form and cast some anchor lines. Netting the in-betweens she’d left undone with frame and radius filament until a hammocky construct was formed. A web of such artistry I almost failed to see the meaning of signal line and death waiting within the weave.
For Visitors:
Tate St Ives: Barbara Hepworth museum & sculpture garden
More prosography from me for The Rag-TagDaily Prompt: Web
PoetryPix 
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