‘Owl, Whittled’

If I had much say in the matter, I would not have wasted any of my summer whittling. It is not an art form I have any future prospects with, and little wooden creatures (whilst sweet) are not in any way important. Yet for a couple of weeks in the summer I found myself able to do nothing else. There was something addictive it: the repetitive movement of the knife, the accessibility of the materials, the promise of a tangible creation within a few focused hours. As soon as I discovered that I was able to call to memory an image out of wood, I felt the need to prove that I could make something that looked, not just like something vague and remembered, but a distinct ‘thing’ with it’s own personality. It should not simply resemble an owl, it must turn its head and puff its chest and be proud like an owl. I whittled until I felt like I’d made something that could be seen as more than just an attempt; I think I had to prove to myself that I could scrape away the layers until I could hold with certainty what had been a mere idea.

Liberty Mountain