About Alexander

When I was two, the world gave me a wad of clay. It said, "Take this and do with it what you wish. Don't worry: you will have food, you will have shelter. Take your time. The clay is yours. For now." 

So I squeezed and smeared and rolled in the clay. I got good and wet and dirty. 

Years later, I saw in the clay something that led me on. The pots can pour water, hold flowers, live plants. Clay became my language. It reveals all I have to say, flowing through these crippled old fingers.

With clay I can show you movement, rhythm, tension, embrace, a joke. Or the dance between forms and their lines. The insides of the pieces (as with all people's) become key. Your eye roams in and out, in and out. The clay reveals visions and creatures which could never exist in our dreary world. Don't trust these. They are impossible. They represent nothing. I only aim for your pleasant confusion. 

The pots should sit in gardens among living beings, as accent to our inner world.