Rocks of ages

Jonathan Jones @ The Guardian
The path is a wet green line across the frosted field. Someone else walked this way this morning, looked at the same view of mountains suspended in the distant mist, and perhaps, as I do, mistook the telephone wires in the frozen sky for a vapour trail. Here in the Welsh hills, the art gallery I visited in London just before Christmas seems a long way off.
But then, it must seem a long way off to Richard Long, too, when he is walking across some far-flung desert. When I saw his exhibition he was around, somewhere, finishing a mud drawing, but all I saw of the artist was a pair of shoes removed and neatly placed on the ground while he splashed wet mud on the walls and moved about chunks of mossy tree bark. I feel closer to him here, in the cold white field that bows upward like a tarpaulin filled by a gust of wind, than I did in the gallery. Maybe the best way to review a walking artist is to take a walk.
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