Patricia Valdata Frankengourd ...a form which I cannot find words to describe—gigantic in stature, yet uncouth and distorted in its proportions. –Mary Shelley The only question, really, is whether the thing is beautiful. Clawed by cats, its scars sewn with sea grass, someone clearly cares. Once it was green, growing, filled with seeds, alive on a vine in the midday sun. Now it is hollow, a crone of a gourd, empty. Intact, with dried seeds inside, or pebbles, it might have become an instrument, shaken and percussive; cracked, it’s only impractical. Like any crafted object, it is more than the sum of its parts, not merely dry, not just a vessel, but something almost monstrous: art.

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