History expressed as form. Standing proud, a life before the world, with scars and wounds an intrinsic part of beauty. The twists and turns of form; magical. Unique. Broken branches, dead wood, clusters of life and leaves, unpredictable angles cutting through space. Textured art as skin.
Steadfastly growing for survival. Making the best of circumstances that cannot be changed. Forever imprisoned. Yet with stoic dignity embracing and accepting the cycles of life and death. That each year, one must start a fresh from the remnants of the year before. Another year reaching for the sky.
Sustaining the witnessed; a web of hidden growth below. Above; the visible drama of life. Below; the unknown story.
People and trees, not so different.
An Accidental Anarchist 