This piece began as an exercise in design and skill during my third year of university—two dragons, hand-carved in Portland stone. At first, it was a challenge set to refine my technique, but as the carving progressed, the piece became something far more personal. I lost confidence in myself and my skillset, doubt crept in and made a home. I began questioning my place in a craft I loved but within an industry that felt exclusive, and unwelcoming. I started to withdraw.
The more I carved, the more I wanted to retreat. I built a box around the space where I was working, not just to contain and hide the sculpture but to shield myself from being seen. Shame, anxiety, and self-doubt plagued my thoughts and at night, I dreamed of them—battling the dragons with my hammer and chisel, only to wake and fight them again in daylight.
When the time came for the piece to be exhibited, I was not ready. The dragons sat small in the corner, and I was disgusted with them, with myself. I stood as far from them as I could, leaving the space as soon as I could. I left them behind, along with my tools.
I couldn't face them, bringing them home I covered them with a blanket, as if hiding them could erase the struggle they represented. Occasionally, I would lift the sheet, half-expecting them to have wandered off, half-hoping the entire experience had been a badly realised dream. But they remained, enduring as ever.
…
Two and a half years under that linen sheet, I approached it as I imagine Dorian Gray approached his portrait—with anticipation and fear of what might be revealed. My breath caught as I reached for the cloth, hesitating before I finally ripped it away. A thick dust cloud rose between us, a sudden bloom of time and memory. The sun cut through in heavy, moving shards, illuminating the swirling dust particles. I stood still, watching the dust settle around me.
Through the clearing, I saw the dragons again.
They were not the failures I had fled from, nor the forms that had haunted me. They were stone, as they had always been—enduring, unmoved by my fears or self-imposed exile. The lines I had once carved with uncertainty remained, but they no longer looked like mistakes. They carried the weight of time, the patience of process. The chiselled marks I had once scorned now spoke of effort, of persistence, of the sheer act of making.
I ran my hand along their surfaces, tracing the edges where doubt had once held me hostage. The stone was cool, indifferent to the emotions I had projected onto it. But something had shifted. The dragons had not changed—I had.
The act of hiding them had been an act of refusal, an unwillingness to face the vulnerability that craft demands. But now, standing in the dust and sunlight, I understood that Creation is a confrontation, not just with material but with oneself. I had fought these dragons in my dreams, in my doubts—but they had always been waiting, patient, unyielding, ready to be seen again.

I felt the weight of the stone lift from my body.  It was not failure—it was recognition. A return.
The beginning of something new.
I picked up my chisel and started to carve.