The earth as a landscape painter, inscribing on itself a record of its own lived geomythology.



Could we be reading in these pictorial stones the birth pangs of mountains; the deaths of breathless oceans, vaporized by the paroxysms of continental drift; the sorting of dunes by an indulgent river; the melancholic dawn of a twilight-bound, Cambrian day?

One thing is for sure: these terrestrial epics — whatever they might be — are now sung today by a new breed of Homers and Virgils, equipped with electric drills, pick axes and polishing tools.