Flesh for Thought Paul Trefry

diminutive old man stares into the distance, his expression mildly quizzical, feeble and forlorn. His thin arms are folded behind his back. Under his small paunch, his trousers are rolled to under the knee. This is (2010). What is he up to? Standing in the surf staring out to the horizon? He would elicit our sympathy if he wasn’t so lost in his own inner world. He is halfscale, which, once (2013). Sitting on a public bench with her hands are folded decorously on her lap, her bespectacled eyes stare vacantly into the void with quiet, stoic acceptance of the here and now. Maybe Charlie is late because he is lost in his own private reverie. The silence of these figures is profound, and they are all the sadder because they do not openly elicit your sympathy.