He stands with quiet resolve — stoic, self-contained, and tenderly melancholic. Named by listening to the silence between the making and myself, I heard Rachmaninoff whispered through the clay.
Like his namesake, the composer of longing and restraint, he carries a nostalgia for lost homes and the ache of beauty remembered. He listens to the wind across the water, a stillness echoing the cadence of a nocturne.
Whispered through the clay, I heard Rachmaninoff.
A cadence of earth and longing.
