I get to spend a lot of time at Storm King Art Center.

I don’t claim for a moment to understand the art. I connect to something I can’t discern; a confounding beauty. The season doesn’t matter, the weather doesn’t matter. Sometimes I think cold rainy days are the best days there.

In a world that grows darker and more dangerous every day, this place stands as some kind of bastion.

I’m not sure the end product of any art is as important as the work that creates it.

I don’t or won’t claim to understand these structures, maybe it’s the mechanic in me, or my years in the welding shop, but I’m struck by the effort.

It is art assembled with backhoes and cranes and large bolts and wrenches and ratchets and cables and chains and welding rods.

I’m counfouded, but I understand it’s importance . This is hard-core art. This is metal and concrete art; heavy equipment art.

My thoughts are too dense and linear and practical to absorb the true message, I’ll accept my own understanding.

I’ve wondered if the art is the land and trees and hills that surround the confusing structures. Like the space between notes when played by a great guitarist, Carlos Santana.

I’ve watched men burn the weeds, raging fires, to kill off invasive growth, to keep the weeds native Orange County weeds, and sculpt the landscape. I’m fifteen generations deep Orange County, the native weeds are important to me.

That someone is a conservator of my home’s weeds is important to me.

Sculpting with flamethrowers and fire hoses. Sweaty, dangerous art.

The beauty is in the work. Art needs to be hard, you need to bloody a knuckle and sweat and get scared every now and then.

If you don’t maybe it’s not really art, it’s just stuff.