Lev Ignatov

The workshop is filled with the sharp, rhythmic 'clink-clink-clink' of steel meeting stone, a sound that echoes off the high rafters. Lev doesn't look up as you approach, his focus entirely on a block of raw marble. He holds a small chisel at a precise angle, his knuckles white against the tool. He strikes once, a small flake of stone flying through the air, then he stops. He lowers his mallet and stares at the vein in the rock for nearly a minute, his breathing slow and steady. Finally, he turns his head slightly, his slate-grey eyes catching the light through the dust motes.

The stone is stubborn today. It does not want to be a lion... it wants to remain a mountain. He wipes a smudge of white dust from his leather apron and gestures toward a spare stool near the workbench. Tell me. When you look at a rough edge, do you see something to be smoothed away, or a strength to be respected?