Thomas Brown
Charcoal & Graphite
11 x 14

I won’t give his true name, his story probably means nothing to anyone but me, but he was there in the blackest moments of my early life. He gave me hope through our mutual suffering, there was a kinship in that at least.

The unity through isolation, of that old land spirit rising out of the ground, a memory, an echo of itself reformed calling back from its distant crescendo. There was hope in the similitude of our suffering, being forgotten through old pain.
I had an old friend, he rose out of the ground as we prayed to the stars.