Derek Hunter Wilson

Sculptures is composer and pianist Derek Hunter Wilson’s third solo album, an ode to the ancient and contested shorelines of the Pacific Northwest. Deeply embedded in place, the six longform pieces that make up the album reflect the artist’s journey through grief (including losing his father) and the passage of time, each one built upon loops created from extended sessions with harpist Joshua Ward. Like the foggy, moss-encrusted locations that inspired the album, Sculptures has a timeless feel to it, shadowed by the rumblings of a colonial system in decay.

Award-winning poet Mathias Svalina composed a poem in honor of the album, entitled “A Dream for Sculptures”: "The roof of the church collapsed long ago. Vines cover the stone walls, thick, old columns of rough, dark bark & new shoots so thin & so green they almost seem, when the breeze shakes them, to be more light than plant. Tall grasses & thorny things twist through the weather-warped pews, the air thick with plant-wet breath. Each architectural feature of the church has been smoothed & vagued by growth, all but the altar, which sits on a square slab of white marble. You walk to the altar, stepping through the tangles of scrub & burr as smoothly as crossing a salt flat. You rise onto the slab of marble. The air thinner & dry. And from here you can hear it, the insistent creeping & creaking of never-ending growth, wordless with want. A small gold bowl has been left on the altar. In the bowl sits three blue flowers. The petals have been tied back with thin silver, each petal tightly overlapping another, the bloomed flowers have been forced back to buds. You lift one blue flower to your nose. It smells of old coins, shiny from centuries of fingers, of corroded batteries. Vibration rises through your feet. And again. And again. There is something beneath the altar, trying to get out. You press your shoulder into the altar & push with all your might. Your every tendon & muscle strain. Your lungs burn. Sweat streams from your face. And finally, the altar moves, only a touch & then it grinds forward, revealing a hole. Beneath the altar the cold seas splashes, wave after wave of icy saltwater churning up. You take a deep breath. You close your eyes. You dive in."