The modern artist forces us to look upon the truths of our world: the inanity of a baked bean tin, or the futility of trash.

In recent history, the artist sought to portray forever-truths: love, death, desire, nature, the innocence of childhood…

I wonder: What did our ancestors want us to know? When peering at structures aligned with the stars; when perceiving how they had made malleable the harshness of stone, when it was all they were given to sculpt; when peering down an avenue of arches toward the rising sun, we are sensible of crude drums or chanting druids; blinding, bursting solar light- or the glowing emissions of celestial orbs. We might feel the heat of a funeral pyre, or perceive the warmth of a campfire; hear the voices of humans akin to ourselves. What did you want us to know? I wonder.