Neath Wawel hill my father had his workshop; vast and vaulted was that whitewashed chamber, alive with jostling crowds of long-dead figures. The boy I then was stored up in his heart impressions later hewn into his art. Pure sentiments at first, not the mind’s rigours, endowed my moulded clay forms with their timbre, which then grew up before me into giants: as statues carved in limewood.