Choose an artist and free-associate.
Today, Andy Goldsworthy.
A tree enclosed within stone. A dead tree, yet it seems to be growing out of and then back into cold stone. Lifeless stone, yet it seems to nourish a tree.
A grave for the dead, yet there seems to be life here, a union of stone and wood that suggests timelessness, agelessness, deathlessness.
An enclosure, a prison? Or an enclosure, walls to protect?
The straight line of man and the curving line of nature. Made one, seemingly.
The tree beside the road that you never really see. The same tree that you are finally, here, made to see — but too late? Never.
A heart, its branching arteries.
A landscape transformed, its losses (first its forests, then even the farmers who replaced them) remembered in art. Mourned in art. Redeemed by art?