Crafted in the shadows of becoming.

This is where the hand was forged—

a closed collection marking the origin

of the one who would one day sculpt for kings.

It began in silence.

Not from knowledge, nor from skill—

but from something deeper.

A vision etched into spirit,

hands moved by unseen grace.

The first form.

The spark before the fire.

What began in fire

was tested in doubt.

But truth does not defend itself—

it reveals.

This was not a response,

but a continuation.

The lines were familiar,

but the presence, new.

Born of revelation,

shaped by newfound command.

This was where form

began to stretch beyond function—

where restraint gave way

to boldness.

Sharper.

Darker.

A silhouette that spoke

not of rebellion,

but of reckoning.

She was not drawn from the dust of others—

but formed from intent,

shaped by understanding.

Where the first revealed the path,

Eve embodied the reason to walk it.

Refined.

Uplifted.

She did not follow the fire—

she was the reason it burned

Desire had dulled.

What once excited now echoed hollow.

But something stirred—a longing not for more,

but for meaning.



He handed over the reins,

not in desperation, but in hope.

Not for another possession,

but for something that would move him.



What emerged was not expected.

Not loud. Not wild.

But alive.

Sculpted with intention,

curved like a whisper.



Crowned by a form that evoked its name—

a shape not to strike, but to awaken.

Now held in the permanent collection of the Audrain Museum, Newport, Rhode Island.

Not every commission begins with surrender.

This one came tethered—

shaped by preferences,

confined by expectation.

But mastery is not undone by constraint.

It adapts. It refines.

And when necessary,

it leads in silence.

The result?

A sculpture born from contrast,

yet unmistakably Ransom.