When viewed in deep time, things come alive that seemed inert. New responsibilities declare themselves. A conviviality of being leaps to mind and eye. The world becomes eerily various and vibrant again. Ice breathes. Rock has tides. Mountains ebb and flow. Stone pulses. We live on a restless Earth.
Robert Macfarlane, Underland
Before me there is a collection of stones, burnished and smooth. I know that a couple of kilometres away, there are more. They have been selected and worked by Anton Forde (Iwi Taranaki, Gaeltacht, Gaelic, English), a sculptor of stone and wood. To be a sculptor is also to be a finder and surfacer of forms, over which meaning can be draped like a shawl. Forde has named the works Kāmaka, which is an old word he says—another kind of surfacing.
These stones used to live deep underground. That fact, and the amount of time they spent there, are notions that I cannot process on this bright November day on this street corner in
