Born from pastel clouds and blushed as health, each a painted infant, gessoed and reaching. Kin to Monet’s faraway “Jar of Peaches,” seeded into the clay spectacular to commune and dream and flower, achieving at the center the divided brain of human nature: split between the orchard’s timetabled logic and the sumptuous urge toward art, to make of any surface a canvas and on it a peach folk-pretty and big as a dinner plate beside a tiny pig and silo. Held, it’s sunset, almost utterance, grave, airbrushed velveteen. A rapture of peaches, hummed into balsa and wire, delved from the original ochre pleasure, redden round in the potter’s terra cotta: a porch gift, a June reunion of fruit and earth, mother flesh and child relentless.
There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence