Words by Kyle von Hoetzendorff
Trundling, the art of rolling rocks downhill, may very well be Man’s first pastime. Imagine our furry ancestors, lining a barbarous ridge, cheering with guttural hoots and long lowing calls as a boulder crashes down a steep and fecund hillside of the rift valley. Before their eyes the boulder, a spinning, hurtling projectile is forging a new path through wild and untamable vegetation. This gravity-propelled occurrence is representative of so many things: this rock is man’s agency, his psyche, his responsibility. It represents an individual's struggle and a culture's struggle, here we see a path where none existed, here we watch our actions in effect, with this boulder we are changing the landscape, making our mark, leaving a trace. This wild mass is man’s mind as we hurtle through time crashing through conflicts and relationships breaking new emotional ground with all the awareness of a centrifuge. We must forge ahead; our biological imperative guides our hand, demands development. And while our ID, Ego, and Super Ego feast upon the evocative ramifications of this plunging wrecking ball our eyes cannot tear away from its visceral physicality.
Let's forget for a moment the desire to imbue existence with synthetic meaning. Let's watch the stone tumble and spin as it traces its arcs. See how it careens from point to point, its destination unpredictable, its attitude anything but. Gravity, so fundamental as to be outside of our framing defines for us its flight plan, a familiar parabola, and as the stone hangs there momentarily suspended, at a glance, still and floating in the apogee of a bounce, there in the moment of its contradiction is its beauty, this is a hurtling mass at the edge of gravity, at the limit of escape.