From the art archive of  Robert Barry

From the art archive of Robert Barry

Morning as Metaphor.

I don't know about you, but mornings and I have not always had such a fondness for one another. I spent most of my young and early adult life battling the early hours, hiding from the sacred space that held the beginning of a new day. It could perhaps have been that I had already greeted the new day without properly bidding farewell to the previous. For years I thought sleep was the enemy. I fought it all night, noticing the hours ticking by ever so often but ignoring them all the same. Time may be an illusion, but the earth's natural rotation is no joke. There is an ebb and flow of light and dark and the in betweens for a reason, and I tend to find the less I try and control the passing of these fleeting minutes the more moments become mine. Mornings are about newness, about the sacrity