Oteiza came to mind first. His raw sculptures, the way he pulled figures from stone as if they were always waiting there. I grew up not far from his world: the Basque Country. In the cliffs of Zumaia, in the mountains, in the people too. Raw and steady, that is what we are.

Stone also makes me think of its cosmic history. Stardust, compressed over millions of years into something I can hold in my hand, and then use to create again. There is something deeply humbling about that. And sacred. Stone is not alive, but it weathers, it ages, it carries memory. I try never to hide what stone already is. Its imperfections are not flaws, they are the whole point.