Rough, moss covered tree bark. A block of wood submits to a saw that cuts through it like butter. The cross section reveals days, months and years, warm summer afternoons and quiet summer nights. The time when the tree still stood in the forest, its roots sanking deep into the soil and its branches clutching the clouds.
30 years at his craft, expressing his creative spirit in wood, the master lets his thoughts wander. About a land where the folk tap the juices of trees in the spring to make wine. About eminent poets who travel their childhood places and clear overgrown forest paths. And about a nation that is known for one of the fastest Internet connections in the world.
Sawdust dances in the air like snow in the summer. A wooden spoon is born! Smooth as a baby’s cheek, with the aroma of summer swelter. The master, who calls himself the Ferryman, he puts it by the others and sets off home to a pine log house that someday his son and daughter will inherit.