Kelly Ludeking

Here is a poem written for me that captures best what I do: Cast ironmongers dance about me. They are rabid for fire to melt the metal that makes manifest their sickness. A village of graphite war painted artists - silver suits buttoned up to protect them from fire fleshing in – travel far and wide to spy the orange heat of liquid iron. They have gathered to honor the call of belonging. The voice of Hephaistos summons them to bless their fire-making and metal-transforming ritual. To deny the query from this god is to forsake their true inheritance. Molds of every shape and size await the molten metal to fill their voids. The fire god smiles when sublime liquid iron is released from the furnace repurposed into something beautiful, useful, permanent. We stay - I stay - until the furnace trembles. Cast ironmongers dance about me. Alone in their iron tribe. Together in their aloneness. The temple of their creative soulness. (Copyright, Diane Ludeking)