February 6, 2026

When I was thirteen, I carried a nearly perfectly round creek stone more than two miles out of the North Georgia mountains. I didn’t know why I needed it — only that I did. It still sits in my garden today.

Years later, I realized I wasn’t drawn to it as a rock but as a form. A sphere appears again and again across cultures as a sign of wholeness and continuity — but this one was not polished or ideal. It was worn, creek-shaped, and improbably complete.

From the Archive: A form recognized before it was understood.

When I photographed it, I wasn’t documenting an object. I was revisiting an instinct — a moment when recognition came before explanation. The photograph became less about geology and more about intention carried forward through time.

Studio Notes: All photographs are symbols; mystery is the entry point.

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February 6, 2026

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