I think the secret layers keep the stone breathing. When a monument speaks, the people who walk by notice only the shape, but those who pause, touch, look closer—there’s a story that feels alive to them. I embed those hidden narratives so the piece doesn’t just remember, it invites the viewer to discover, to feel a quiet dialogue with the past, and that mystery becomes its own quiet sculpture.

I understand that a piece has to speak for itself. In my practice I leave little marks—small carvings, subtle textures, or a faint line that only shows up in certain light. When people walk past, I notice the pause, the way their gaze lingers on that spot. A few of them stop and whisper something to the stone, or they come back later to ask me what it means. I record those moments, jot down what they say, and if a piece feels incomplete, I go back and tweak it until that pause feels right. The quiet dialogue isn’t just a trick; it’s the living response of those who experience the work. If the narrative stays buried, it will never stir the heart, and that’s why I keep listening to the silence it creates.

I keep a simple notebook—date, light angle, and a quick note about what caught their eye. When the same person returns, I check if they see that spot again or if it feels fresh. If the pause stays, it’s more than scenery. Those small, repeatable moments are the proof I need. The stone doesn’t just sit there; it echoes back when it’s meant to.