They seem frozen in time, pieces of breathless bronze reality.
An eagle perches on a branch, elegantly scanning his territory for his next meal.
An Indian brave, mounted on horseback, extends his wrist above his shoulder and a hawk alights.
A comic-opera prospector regards with appropriate foreboding an approaching bear while his frightened pack animals rear and buck on the narrow, pine-studded trail.
The sculpture of Richard Myer captures a vision of nature and the American West which many buffs find highly desirable.
How can Myer create art in his Glendora studio while the fingers of others stumble clumsily over typewriter keys or are limited to other mundane tasks?
Myer isn’t sure.
“There’s no magic in my hands.”
“Your brain makes your hands move. You’ve just got to think what you’re going to do, and then do it.”