Troubling rituals are gathering.
Haggling skills are becoming golden
chisels, and granite belts grind them to sparks. Turning with traction,
these sparks gather like flies. The kinetic tones of acceleration found
within Mother of Fire combs the psyche for hints of panic and replaces
it with an imperative momentum.
Drive away superficial doubt like a herd of unwanted beasts, and allow
the sagacious freedom our instinct rightfully deserves, it's requisite
course. Channeling this responsibility with confident sincerity, the
troubling is at once the relaxing. This conviction and tolerance is
persistent, enabling a bloodletting which battles to cure and to cull.
Without the contemporary irony used to punctuate and justify in
distanced safety, Mother of Fire instead creates an honest reflection
through brave hand forged lenses.
Churned in memory-like cycles the ritual is commanded by searing bow
strokes and a Muscovy glass voice. Silhouette elements pass decree
through almost ancient melodic incantation. The stable hand of song in
a world saturated with scattering distraction. Beside these earnest
standards a rich understandable darkness, like the pulse of frozen
lakes and failing factories, urges us toward the terrible, daunting and
sublime. It is here in the folds of both endurance and remedy that
Mother of Fire sways with darkness until darkness swoons.
~ Asa Irons