Inside the Book of Revelation Sculpture — Painting the Visions of John
The Book of Revelation — Journal One
Painting the Visions of John
Revelation doesn't unfold gently.
One vision crashes into another — angels, beasts, churches, seals, trumpets, fire, blood, destruction, judgement and extraordinary glimpses of Heaven.
It is beautiful, terrifying and sometimes almost impossible to imagine.
That was precisely what drew me to it.
I wasn't interested in illustrating the Bible verse by verse. I wanted to enter John's vision and ask a different question:
What might it have felt like to see all of this?
That question shaped the artwork.
A sea of glass becomes a brilliant blue crystalline wall. The Lamb becomes a child. Angels become powerful androgynous sentinels. Voices emerge as trumpets, lightning and flame. John's body becomes part of the journey itself.
Some details follow the biblical descriptions closely. Others passed through my imagination and emerged transformed.
Beauty sits beside horror.
Innocence beside terror.
Light beside destruction.
But as I worked through John's vision, another question began to emerge.
What if all this destruction wasn't simply about the end of the world?
John falls as though dead at the very beginning of his vision. From that moment, I began to wonder what happens to the self when the body is left behind.
What do we take with us?
What has to be surrendered?
And if death is an ending, could it also be the beginning of something else?
I didn't begin this artwork with all the answers. Many of these ideas revealed themselves as the imagery developed.
And as John's visions intensify, the painting becomes increasingly crowded and chaotic. There is no comfortable pause in which to absorb one extraordinary event before the next arrives.
The overwhelm is part of it.
This first journal takes you inside the central painting, from the Seven Churches and the throne of Heaven to the Lamb, the breaking of the seals, the sounding of the trumpets and the strange visions that follow.
Some symbols announce themselves.
Others hide.
And some make very little sense until you understand why I put them there.
So rather than simply looking at the painting, I invite you to read it.
Because this isn't only the story John tells.
It is also the story of what happened when I tried to give his vision form — and began to find another journey hidden inside it.
Chapter 6: The Seventh Seal: Greiving for the Self
Chapter One — This Is Not Just a Book
What Does It Mean to Be Blessed by Reading?
Before I began The Book of Revelation, one line stopped me:
“Blessed is he that readeth, and they that hear the words of this prophecy…”
Blessed.
Why?
Why should simply reading these words bring a blessing?
I have never felt particularly connected to God in the conventional sense. I wasn't approaching Revelation as a theologian, and I certainly wasn't setting out to tell anyone else what they should believe.
I came to it as an artist.
A questioner.
Someone fascinated by symbolism, human behaviour and the stories we have carried with us for centuries.
So perhaps the blessing wasn't something bestowed upon me simply for turning the pages.
Perhaps the words themselves were the gift.
And if they were, what were they trying to give me?
Looking Beyond the Apocalypse
On the surface, Revelation gives us an extraordinary spectacle: angels and beasts, eyes and horns, seals and trumpets, blood, judgement, destruction, Heaven, death and rebirth.
But the further I read, the more interested I became in what might lie beneath all that imagery.
Could these ancient words be speaking about more than God, Heaven or the end of the world?
Could they also be asking us to look at ourselves?
Perhaps the blessing wasn't in accepting every word literally.
Perhaps it was in questioning it.
That thought changed the way I read.
If John described seven candlesticks, I wanted to know why.
If a creature had eyes where eyes shouldn't be, I wanted to see it.
If a seal was broken, I wanted to know what waited behind it.
My notes multiplied. One symbol led to another, each answer produced another question, and gradually Revelation stopped being something I was simply reading.
I was pulling it apart.
And somewhere amongst all those notes came an even bigger problem:
How could I possibly turn all of this into one artwork?
The Book Becomes the Artwork
The answer was sitting in front of me.
A book.
An artwork born from The Book of Revelation would itself become an enormous book — but this one wouldn't simply be read.
It would be opened.
Inside would be the turmoil of John's vision: the creatures, destruction, judgement and darkness.
Close it, and that world would disappear behind something completely different — the brightness of the Gates of Heaven, metal catching the light and the possibility of what lies beyond everything we have just witnessed.
Darkness within. Light without.
Opening and closing the sculpture would become part of reading it.
At that stage, I had absolutely no idea how I was going to build such a thing.
That problem could wait.
First, I needed to understand what I had opened.
Perhaps This Was the Blessing
I began Revelation with curiosity, not expecting it to bring me closer to God.
But those opening words had already done something.
They had made me question.
Perhaps some books give us answers, while others are gifts because they leave us with questions we would never otherwise have thought to ask.
Perhaps that is why the blessing can be different for every person who reads them.
I still didn't know what mine would be.
But I was beginning to understand that reading Revelation and questioning Revelation were becoming the same thing.
The book was open.
And John's vision was about to begin.
Chapter Two — John: Where the Vision Begins
What If This Isn't About the End of the World?
John falls at the feet of the figure before him “as dead.”
Those two words caught me.
Because what if this apparent death isn't really an ending?
What if it is the beginning?
As I worked through Revelation, that question grew into something larger. I began to wonder whether John's vision could be read not simply as a prophecy of what might one day happen to the world, but as a journey through everything we eventually have to confront and perhaps surrender.
The destruction is relentless.
Things fall, burn, disappear and are cast into darkness. There is judgement, suffering and death.
Yet beyond it all comes something completely different.
Heaven.
Renewal.
A new beginning.
So perhaps destruction isn't always the opposite of creation.
Perhaps sometimes something has to end before something else can begin.
What Do We Take With Us?
That thought led me somewhere much more personal.
What happens when we die?
Do we carry everything with us — our memories, loves, anger, possessions, failures, pride, pain and all the identities we have spent a lifetime constructing?
Or does death require us to let them go?
Revelation repeatedly returns to the destruction of a third.
A third burned.
A third darkened.
A third destroyed.
That repetition fascinated me.
Rather than seeing it only as physical destruction, I began imagining something being stripped away.
What if that disappearing third represented the parts of ourselves that cannot continue with us?
Our anger?
Our greed?
Our pride?
Our pain?
Even our attachment to the person we believed ourselves to be?
These aren't theological conclusions.
They are simply the questions Revelation put into my head.
But they began to change the way I understood John's journey.
Death or Rebirth?
The more John witnesses, the more he seems to pass through: terror, temptation, violence, judgement and destruction before the vision eventually carries him towards light.
There was something strangely familiar in that movement.
We spend our lives accumulating.
Experiences become memories. Memories become identity. We collect relationships, possessions, successes, disappointments, resentments and beliefs until all those layers become the person we call me.
But perhaps at the end the journey reverses.
Perhaps we begin to shed them.
Layer after layer.
Until there is nothing left to hold onto.
That possibility changed Revelation for me.
A book that appears to be obsessed with endings began to look increasingly like a book about rebirth.
A Journey I Would Meet Again
Years later, when I created Dante's Inferno, I found myself confronting a similar journey.
Dante passes through Hell, onwards through Purgatory and ultimately towards Paradise.
Different story. Different century.
But the same compelling movement from darkness towards light.
It made me wonder whether these great visions endure because they touch something profoundly human: the idea that transformation requires a journey, and that Paradise cannot simply be placed at the beginning.
You have to travel towards it.
That is how I began to see John.
Not simply as the witness to an apocalypse, but as someone passing through an extraordinary transformation.
And that gave me the first human figure I needed for the painting.
John would enter the vision as though dead.
But I would place his body in the position from which every one of us began.
Curled like a child waiting to be born.
Chapter Three — The Son of Man and the Seven Churches
Giving the Vision Form
John's vision begins with something both recognisable and impossible.
A man in white.
Seven stars.
A key.
Burning eyes.
Feet like brass.
And a double-edged blade emerging from his mouth.
The Son of Man floats above the clouds, dressed in white with a golden girdle bearing the Alpha and Omega — the beginning and the end.
That symbolism has become increasingly important to me because John is standing at both.
He is approaching the end of one existence while beginning another. What appears to be death from one side of the divide may be birth when viewed from the other.
Alpha and Omega can occupy the same moment.
Later, John's body will lie curled in a foetal position beneath the vision. Death will resemble birth. His soul will arrive in its infancy and begin another journey.
But here, before any of that happens, the Alpha and Omega quietly announce what is coming.
An ending is beginning.
John first encounters this through something he can still recognise — an adult human form — but the familiarity quickly begins to fracture.
His feet shine like brass.
Seven stars rest in one hand, while the other holds the key of death.
His eyes burn with flame.
Those eyes connect, for me, to the sun that appears later at the centre of the throne. Light allows us to see, yet look directly into the sun and the very thing that illuminates can also burn.
Perhaps ancient knowledge is like that too.
John is still young in this journey. He has only just reached the threshold of something far older and greater than human understanding. To look too deeply, too soon, could almost burn the soul.
The burning eyes therefore offer both illumination and danger.
Some things have to be grown into before we are ready to see them.
And then there is the double-edged blade.
It remains exactly where John's vision places it:
coming from his mouth.
A double-edged sword cuts both ways.
So, to me, do the words John is about to hear.
There will be good and bad.
Comfort and terror.
Creation and destruction.
Life and death.
John cannot simply hear the things that reassure him and turn away from those that cut. If this is a journey of transformation, he will have to face both.
Perhaps that is why the Alpha and Omega feels so significant here.
Beginning and end.
Light and darkness.
Comfort and destruction.
Again and again, apparent opposites exist together.
There was no reason to soften any of this into something more comfortable or conventionally beautiful. The strangeness is part of its power.
John sees a man, but everything about him suggests something far beyond ordinary human existence.
The impossible needed to remain impossible.
It simply needed a form.
When a Church Becomes a Candlestick
Around the Son of Man are the seven golden candlesticks, representing the seven churches.
Rather than separating those two ideas, I brought them together.
Each candlestick became a church.
The buildings loosely reference architecture of the period, but from the top of each rises a flame. To me, that flame means more than simply turning the church into a candlestick.
It makes the church a beacon.
A light in the darkness.
Something visible from a distance, offering a point towards which people can find their way.
That is how I came to think of the seven churches: not simply as buildings or institutions, but as seven lights intended to guide those searching for them.
And each beacon carries its own promise.
Ephesus carries the Tree of Life.
Smyrna receives the Crown of Life.
Pergamos holds the white stone.
Thyatira carries the Morning Star.
Sardis receives white raiment.
Philadelphia becomes the pillar.
And Laodicea is promised a place upon the throne.
For Laodicea, the throne is built into the church itself, deliberately echoing the greater throne waiting elsewhere in the painting.
So each structure carries several ideas at once:
Church. Candlestick. Flame. Beacon. Promise.
The symbolism isn't sitting beside the architecture.
It is built into it.
Chapter 4 — Before the Throne
John Leaves His Body Behind
John has fallen as though dead.
At the bottom of the painting, his naked body lies curled into a foetal position.
That position is deliberate. It suggests innocence, but also rebirth. John appears to have died in one world, yet his body has returned to the position in which life begins.
Death and birth occupy the same moment.
He is about to witness things no human mind could be prepared for. Naked and stripped of everything familiar, his soul enters this extraordinary place almost in its infancy.
For me, this is where John's real journey begins.
Above him, Heaven opens.
The Sea of Glass
Before the throne lies the sea of glass like crystal.
It cuts through the composition as a brilliant blue crystalline wall, deliberately intense against the golds and yellows that dominate so much of the artwork.
The contrast needed to be striking.
That blue announces another world. It is cold, brilliant and almost otherworldly, separating the realm John has left from the one he has just entered.
And sitting upon this sea of glass are four extraordinary guardians.
The Four Beasts — Nothing Can Hide Here
A lion.
An ox.
A man.
An eagle.
Each of the four beasts has six wings and eyes covering its body.
They are subtle within the composition, but deliberately so. I think of them almost as good guard dogs — quiet but dominant guardians surrounding the throne.
But all those eyes mean something much more to me.
Nothing can hide here.
If John's vision is a journey through death, perhaps this is where we are finally seen completely.
Not the version of ourselves we presented to the world.
Not the person we hoped other people believed us to be.
Everything.
Our strengths and our weaknesses. The good we have done and the things we would rather conceal. The parts of ourselves we are proud of and those we might prefer never to expose.
There are eyes in every direction because the soul has nowhere left to hide.
The beasts don't need to chase or threaten. Their power is simply that they see.
And perhaps in death, being truly seen means being seen entirely.
The Twenty-Four Elders — Older Than Time
Around the throne sit the twenty-four elders, but I don't see them as judges.
Their purpose, to me, is far more welcoming.
John has crossed the threshold of death, but in this new existence his soul is still in its infancy. His foetal body below takes on another meaning here: what looked like death in one world has become birth into another.
The elders are the opposite.
Their strange faces suggest something older than time, while their white, stone-like cloaks connect them to the earth itself. They feel ancient, solid and enduring — beings who have travelled immeasurably further than the newly arrived soul before them.
They are there to celebrate John's first transformation into death.
Their harps emerge directly from their mouths, turning their voices into music, while oil burns within parts of their forms.
There is no judgement in this moment.
It is an arrival.
Even their crowns contain a contradiction. The crowns themselves are black, yet from them rises golden light.
The darkness is on the outside.
The richness is within.
That golden glow represents their inner light made visible.
But their great age also gives John perspective.
He may have travelled an enormous distance simply to reach them, yet beside these ancient beings his soul is still young. Their presence quietly reveals the scale of what remains ahead.
Death is not the end of John's journey. It is where the journey begins.
The elders celebrate his arrival, while at the same time showing him just how far he still has to travel.
At the Centre — The Throne
Everything circles one point.
The throne.
Its structure takes the shape of a crown, surrounded by the emerald and rainbow described in Revelation. Lightning breaks beneath it and the seven flames burn before it.
But at its centre is something far more personal to me.
The sun.
This returns to an idea I have dabbled with for years: if there is a supreme being, what would that actually mean?
I have always questioned the human figures we have created to represent God across different religions. My mind continually comes back to the sun.
It gives us life.
Its light touches every one of us. It enters our physical world and falls upon our bodies constantly, whether we think about it or not. We absorb its warmth and light simply by being here.
But there is something about that experience that goes beyond the physical.
Lie in the sun and close your eyes and, for a moment, the world changes.
The warmth settles over you. Light still penetrates the darkness behind your eyelids. Your thoughts loosen from the practical things surrounding you and the mind is free to wander somewhere else — somewhere peaceful, imaginative, perhaps even dreamlike.
There is an extraordinary comfort in that.
And it reminds me of the way people describe feeling the presence of God.
Not necessarily seeing something.
Feeling it.
A warmth. A light. A sense of being surrounded by something larger than themselves. A moment in which the mind becomes still enough to travel somewhere the body cannot.
Perhaps that is why the sun has always made more sense to me as an image of a supreme presence than a human figure ever has.
But the sun carries a contradiction.
It nurtures us, yet it can burn us.
It gives life, yet possesses the power to destroy.
It is the light in the darkness, but we cannot stare directly into it.
It feels familiar because we experience it every day, yet it is ancient beyond the scale of a human lifetime and something we are still trying to understand.
That contradiction fascinates me because it echoes the way God is so often presented: comforting yet terrifying, nurturing yet destructive, intimate yet incomprehensibly powerful.
And most importantly, the sun doesn't belong to anyone.
Its light falls upon all of us.
So there is no human figure representing God at the centre of my throne.
There is radiating light.
The sun becomes the source from which the emerald, rainbow, crown, lightning and fire appear to emanate. The throne is no longer simply a seat. It becomes a concentration of light, energy, warmth and power.
Perhaps this is where my own questioning of religion enters the painting most clearly.
I don't know what God is.
But I understand the feeling of sunlight on my skin. I understand the comfort of closing my eyes beneath its warmth and allowing my mind to wander. I understand that something can nurture us and still possess enormous destructive power.
And perhaps, for me, that comes closer to the idea of God than any human face I could have given Him.
Something ancient. Something powerful. Something comforting. Something dangerous.
And above all, something whose light touches every one of us.
The Lamb of God
At the centre of this extraordinary throne sits the Lamb of God.
But my Lamb is not a lamb.
He is a child.
The child carries the innocence traditionally associated with the Lamb, but his human form means something more.
Christ has been here.
He has lived upon the earth in human form and experienced what it means to exist within our world. However ancient or eternal he may be, he has crossed that divide.
And now John has crossed it too.
That creates, for me, an unexpected kinship between them.
John arrives in this realm with his soul in its infancy, his foetal body below marking the beginning of a new existence. The figure waiting upon the throne also appears as a child — not because he is inexperienced, but because he understands the human journey John has just left behind.
Even the child of God has learnt something on earth.
The elders may show John how ancient this new existence is and how far he still has to travel, but the Lamb understands where he has come from.
Yet there is something deeply unsettling about this child.
His face has no eyes.
Only empty sockets.
The eyes are instead carried upon his horns, and that distinction is important to me.
He does not see through human eyes.
Human sight can be flawed. We see through our experiences, prejudices, fears, desires and limitations. We don't necessarily see what is true; sometimes we see what we expect or want to see.
The Lamb's sight comes from somewhere else.
The horns carry power and authority, and it is from that place that his eyes look out.
His vision is no longer confined by ordinary human existence.
The empty sockets are therefore not blindness.
Quite the opposite.
They suggest another kind of sight.
He has experienced humanity, giving him kinship with John, but he no longer sees through the limitations of being human.
That contradiction runs through the entire figure.
A child who may be older than time.
An innocent figure carrying immense authority.
A human form that no longer sees as a human sees.
And in his hands rests the book with the seven seals.
John has entered this world innocent and newly transformed.
The beasts see everything he brings with him.
The elders celebrate his arrival while showing him how far he still has to travel.
The sun radiates from the throne — nurturing and destructive, comforting and terrifying.
And at its centre waits the one figure who understands both sides of the divide.
The Lamb has known the world John has left behind.
Now he will show him what comes next.
Chapter 5 — Breaking the Seals
Only the Lamb Can Open the Book
The book rests in the hands of the Lamb.
And that matters.
Only he can open it.
The child upon the throne has something the beasts and the elders do not. Christ has experienced the corporeal world. He has lived within a human body, known earthly existence and passed through death.
He knows the world John has just left.
But he also knows what lies beyond it.
For me, that makes the Lamb the connection between the two — the figure who can guide John forward because he has already experienced both sides of the journey.
So perhaps opening the book isn't simply about revealing what will happen to the world.
Perhaps it is revealing what must happen to John.
From very early on, I began to see Revelation as a way of saying goodbye to the corporeal world.
John's body has been left behind, but everything that made up his human identity has not necessarily disappeared with it.
Memory.
Possessions.
Desire.
Fear.
Pride.
Pain.
Attachment.
A lifetime of being human.
Perhaps death takes the body first, but the human self still has to be relinquished.
And the Lamb, having already crossed that divide, begins to show John how.
The Seals on the Gates — Life Within Death
The seals move the story beyond the central painting and physically onto the gates themselves.
The first five have two faces.
Open the gates and the painted visions are revealed.
Close them and those images disappear, leaving the metal seals visible.
But the metalwork is not simply a reverse side to the paintings.
Each seal carries another message.
While the painted faces take us through conquest, war, famine, death and martyrdom, their metal counterparts carry symbols of life, wisdom, understanding, balance and strength.
That contrast is fundamental to the whole artwork.
Because however terrifying Revelation becomes, I kept returning to one idea:
rebirth.
The first metal seal represents Essence and Life. Its form is based upon the koru, the unfurling spiral of new life, developed through the proportions of the Fibonacci sequence. Growth is already contained within its form — life opening outwards and continuing.
The second represents Wisdom through the ouroboros, the serpent consuming its own tail. Beginning becomes ending and ending becomes beginning. It is a continuous cycle in which one state feeds the next.
The third represents Balance and Understanding, formed as a triad with spiral tails. Separate elements meet within one form, suggesting that understanding comes through finding balance between them.
The fourth represents Counsel and Balance and takes its form from a spiral galaxy. The spiral now expands beyond the individual into something almost incomprehensibly vast — movement, order and balance existing on a scale far greater than ourselves.
The fifth is another spiral, this time representing Strength and Might.
The repetition of the spiral is important.
It turns.
It grows.
It continues.
It doesn't simply arrive at an end.
That same idea is already appearing throughout the artwork. John seems to die, yet his body takes the position of birth. Alpha and Omega place an ending beside a beginning. The elders welcome a soul still in its infancy. The Lamb appears as a child.
Again and again, death refuses to be simply an ending.
So when the gates close and the painted visions disappear, they aren't replaced by emptiness.
Life remains on the surface.
The paintings reveal what John must pass through.
The metal seals remind us why.
Not simply to die.
To transform.
The First Seal — Conquest
The Lamb breaks the first seal.
A white horse appears, its rider carrying a bow and wearing a crown.
The conqueror.
But I began to see conquest differently.
What if the first thing we have to conquer in death is ourselves?
We spend a lifetime constructing the person we believe ourselves to be. Our possessions, ambitions, successes, failures, desires, grudges, fears and experiences accumulate until they become inseparable from the word me.
But what happens to all of that when the body dies?
Perhaps before we can leave the corporeal world, we have to conquer our attachment to the person we were within it.
The first battle is with the self.
The Second Seal — War
The second seal releases the red horse, its rider carrying a sword.
War.
But now the battle moves within.
Recognising what must be left behind doesn't mean we surrender it willingly.
The ego fights.
Attachment fights.
Fear fights.
Everything we have spent a lifetime becoming resists being taken away.
The red horse became the conflict between the person John has been and whatever he is becoming next.
The Third Seal — Famine
The third horse is black.
Famine.
Its rider carries the imagery of scales, barley and a penny — measurement, value and scarcity.
But if John's journey is taking him away from corporeal existence, what is left to value?
Money has no purpose.
Possessions cannot follow him.
Status means nothing.
The body no longer needs feeding.
So famine became the starvation of the human self.
Having conquered it and fought with it, perhaps now John must stop feeding everything that once sustained his earthly identity.
The appetites of the corporeal world begin to lose their power.
The Fourth Seal — Death
And finally comes Death.
Yet John has already fallen “as dead.”
His physical death began the journey, so this death means something different to me.
It is the death of what remains of his corporeal identity.
The Four Horsemen form a progression:
Conquer it.War with it.Starve it.Allow it to die.
They are not simply four disconnected horrors.
They become stages of surrender.
The body has gone, but now the identity attached to that body must follow.
This is what saying goodbye to the corporeal world came to mean within the painting.
Not one sudden severing.
A process.
And throughout it, the Lamb is opening each seal.
That is important.
He is not standing outside human existence demanding that John abandon it.
He has lived it himself.
He understands what John is being asked to surrender because he too has known life within a human body.
The Lamb doesn't simply reveal the journey.
He leads John through it.
The Fifth Seal — The Martyrs
Then the horses disappear.
The fifth seal reveals the souls of the martyrs spiralling upwards towards the light.
Their movement is important.
They don't fall.
They rise.
From their mouths come flames, representing their inner souls — something that physical destruction has failed to extinguish.
Their earthly bodies are gone.
Their inner light remains.
After the Four Horsemen have stripped away the corporeal self, the martyrs offer the first glimpse of something surviving physical death.
And once again there is the spiral.
Their souls rise in the same continuing movement carried by the metal seals — another suggestion that death is not a full stop.
It is movement into something else.
The Sixth Seal — When the Heavens Change
Now the vision expands beyond the individual.
The sun becomes black.
The moon becomes blood.
The stars fall from Heaven.
The sixth seal deliberately breaks the physical pattern established by the first five.
There is no metal reverse.
Instead, the entire seal — the blackened sun, blood moon and falling stars — is made from stained glass.
It remains visible whether the gates are open or closed.
And this time, light itself becomes part of the imagery.
Actual light passes through the blackened sun, blood moon and falling stars. As the light surrounding the sculpture changes, the appearance of the seal changes with it.
There is something wonderfully contradictory in that.
This is an image of the heavens being darkened, yet light is what brings it alive.
Again, two apparent opposites need one another.
Light and darkness.
Ending and beginning.
Death and rebirth.
The first five seals can disappear when the gates close.
The sixth cannot.
By now, John's transformation has expanded into something much greater. The disturbance has reached the heavens themselves and can no longer be contained within an individual painted image.
The heavens have changed.
The light has changed.
And even closing the gates cannot shut it away.
Holding Back the Four Winds — The Bridge Between the Seals
But the sixth seal doesn't finish with the stained glass.
Its final movement takes us away from the gates and back into the central painting.
Here, four angels stand at the four corners of the earth, holding back the four winds.
Their position is important because they physically connect two parts of the artwork.
The blackened sun, blood moon and falling stars occupy the stained glass, while the four angels continue the sixth seal onto the main painting.
They become the bridge to what comes next.
Behind them is the sixth seal.
Ahead is the seventh.
And between the two, everything is held still.
After the Horsemen, the martyrs and the upheaval of the heavens, suddenly something is being restrained.
No wind can blow upon the earth.
The sea.
The trees.
For me, it feels like a held breath.
Not peace.
Not an ending.
A moment of suspension.
The construction of the artwork follows that movement too. The eye travels from the physical seals on the gates, through the stained-glass heavens and back towards the central painting.
The four angels don't simply hold back the winds.
They hold the viewer at the threshold of the seventh seal.
John has left his body.
The corporeal self has been conquered, fought, starved and allowed to die.
The martyrs have shown that something can survive physical destruction.
The heavens themselves have changed.
And now everything waits.
The winds are held.
The vision is suspended.
Then the Lamb opens the seventh seal.
Our attention returns completely to the central painting.
Seven angels stand before God.
And they are given seven trumpets.
Chapter Six — The Seventh Seal: Grieving for the Self
The Final Stage of Letting Go
The Lamb opens the seventh seal.
By now, the seals have become much more to me than a sequence of biblical catastrophes.
They are stages.
Each one has taken John further from the corporeal world, and with every seal the intensity has increased.
Conquer the self.
War with it.
Starve it.
Allow it to die.
Watch the soul rise.
See even the heavens begin to change.
And now comes the seventh.
For me, this is the final and most brutal stage of letting go of the person we were.
Because why should leaving ourselves behind be painless?
We already know something of this pain.
We experience it when somebody we love dies.
Grief can feel physical. It can consume us, disorientate us and make the familiar world suddenly feel as though it no longer exists. Everything continues around us, yet for the person grieving, something enormous has ended.
It can feel like the end of the world.
That familiar human experience became an important metaphor for the seals.
What if death contains a grief of its own?
Not grief for somebody else.
Grief for ourselves.
For the body we inhabited.
The people we loved.
The identity we built.
The places we knew.
The things we touched.
The life that, however imperfectly, belonged to us.
Perhaps we cannot simply step away from all of that without mourning its loss.
We talk about stages of grief because letting go is rarely one clean moment. It comes in waves, resistance, pain and eventual surrender.
My seven seals began to feel much the same.
Seven stages of grieving for the corporeal self.
And like grief, they become increasingly difficult to endure.
That is why the imagery becomes so brutal.
The world appears to be ending because, for John, his world is ending.
The Seventh Seal — When Grief Becomes Overwhelming
With the seventh seal, the vision erupts again.
Seven angels stand before God.
And they are given seven trumpets.
These angels are not gentle messengers.
They are sentinels.
Androgynous, six-winged and commanding, they stand above the turmoil below. I don't see them as male or female, or even as human-like beings in the conventional sense.
To me, they are extensions of God.
His authority.
His word.
His voice.
And that voice is about to become deafening.
The Trumpets Are Their Voices
The angels don't hold conventional trumpets to their lips.
Their mouths are the trumpets.
They project outwards like the bell of a great brass instrument, turning the angels themselves into vessels through which the sound travels.
It was my way of making something invisible visible.
Sound.
The command passes through them and pours down towards the earth.
And with every sounding, John's old world is torn apart a little further.
Fire from the Altar
Before the trumpets begin, another angel takes a golden censer, fills it with fire from the altar and casts it towards the earth.
Thunder follows.
Lightning.
Earthquake.
The moment of stillness created by the four angels holding back the winds is shattered.
The pause is over.
If those four angels created the held breath between the sixth and seventh seals, this is the exhale.
And it is violent.
The First Trumpet — Fire and Blood
The first angel sounds.
Hail and fire mingled with blood fall upon the earth.
The landscape begins to burn.
Fire rains down, smoke rises and human figures are caught within forces vastly greater than themselves.
The Second Trumpet — The Burning Mountain
The second angel sounds.
A great mountain burning with fire is thrown into the sea.
This becomes the volcanic imagery within the painting — eruptions, smoke, fire and water consumed by destruction.
The individual events are already beginning to merge.
That is deliberate.
Grief doesn't arrive in neat compartments, and neither does this part of John's vision.
One wave crashes into another.
The Third Trumpet — Wormwood
The third angel sounds.
A great burning star falls from Heaven.
Its name is Wormwood.
It streaks through the painting like a comet, falling into the chaos below.
Another part of the world John knew has been poisoned.
Another certainty disappears.
The Fourth Trumpet — The Light Fades
Then the fourth angel sounds.
The sun is struck.
The moon is struck.
The stars are struck.
Their light begins to disappear.
By now, I wasn't interested in illustrating every fraction of destruction described in Revelation.
The important thing was the feeling of accumulation.
Fire.
Blood.
Smoke.
Darkness.
Loss.
One catastrophe follows another until the whole landscape seems unable to contain it.
That is what grief can feel like.
When we lose somebody deeply important to us, the physical world hasn't actually ended.
But emotionally?
It can feel as though it has.
That is how I came to understand the escalating destruction of the seven seals.
John isn't simply watching a world being destroyed.
He is experiencing the destruction of his world — the corporeal existence to which he can no longer return.
And perhaps the brutality is necessary because letting go of an entire human life could never be gentle.
The seven seals have taken him through that grief.
But the seventh has not finished with him yet.
The first four trumpets bring destruction from above.
Then the fifth angel sounds.
And suddenly the direction changes.
This time, the terror doesn't fall from Heaven.
It rises from within the darkness below.
The bottomless pit opens.
And now John must confront something else entirely.
Chapter Seven — The Bottomless Pit
When There Is Almost Nothing Left to Take
The fifth angel sounds.
Until now, much of the destruction has been directed at the world around John.
Fire falls.
The sea is struck.
Wormwood poisons the waters.
The sun, moon and stars begin to lose their light.
The world he knew is being dismantled around him.
But now the direction changes.
A star falls from Heaven and is given the key to the bottomless pit.
The pit opens.
Smoke pours upwards through the centre of the painting.
And from that smoke come the locusts.
For me, this is where the process becomes much more brutal.
The world has been attacked. Now the body is attacked.
The Locusts — Destruction Gets Closer
Locusts already carry an ancient association with plague and destruction.
They consume.
They strip.
They leave devastation behind them.
But the creatures emerging from this pit are far worse than any natural plague.
They have faces like men, hair like women, teeth like lions and tails like scorpions.
They are almost demonic.
Human, animal and insect have been forced together into something grotesque — something designed not merely to destroy, but to torment.
Their scorpion tails are particularly important because the destruction has become intimate.
This is no longer simply about watching the world collapse around you.
Now you feel it.
If the earlier trumpets tear apart the environment of the corporeal world, these creatures begin tearing at the corporeal being itself.
And perhaps that is what has to happen next.
Shredding What Remains
Throughout the seals, John has been gradually separated from his human existence.
He has had to conquer it.
War with it.
Starve it.
Allow it to die.
Then the seventh seal intensifies that loss until his world appears to collapse around him.
But perhaps even that isn't enough.
There are still remnants.
The physical self.
The instinctive self.
The parts of being human that cling on even when everything familiar has disappeared.
This is where, for me, everything begins to be shredded.
The imagery becomes deliberately vicious because letting go completely is not being presented as something gentle.
The demonic creatures torment.
The locusts destroy.
The body itself becomes vulnerable.
John isn't being allowed to carry the remains of his old existence quietly into whatever comes next.
They are being stripped from him.
The Sixth Trumpet — The Destruction Continues
Then the sixth angel sounds.
Four angels bound at the great river Euphrates are released.
These are not the four angels we encountered earlier holding back the winds. Those belonged to the transition between the sixth and seventh seals.
Here, restraint has disappeared.
An immense army follows.
Mounted figures move through fire, smoke and blood. The riders become strange, almost faceless men, their individuality swallowed by the force they have become part of.
By this point, trying to illustrate every number, every death and every fraction described in Revelation would have turned the painting into a catalogue.
The exact arithmetic mattered less to me than the relentless stripping away.
The first destruction took the world.
The next attacks the body.
And now almost everything that once defined corporeal existence is being torn apart.
When the Human Becomes the Beast
There is another uncomfortable transformation happening amongst all this destruction.
The creatures are becoming increasingly difficult to separate from us.
Human faces appear upon monstrous bodies.
Faceless men ride amongst the devastation.
Animal, insect and human forms merge.
That matters because the beasts throughout this artwork aren't simply monsters waiting somewhere outside ourselves.
There is a beast within us too.
The bottomless pit can therefore be more than a hole in the earth.
It can be the place where everything we would rather not recognise about ourselves has been buried.
Cruelty.
Violence.
Anger.
The desire to dominate.
Our capacity to hurt one another.
Perhaps those things have to surface because they cannot be carried forward unnoticed.
We can hide them from other people.
We can even hide them from ourselves.
But earlier, the many eyes of the four beasts surrounding the throne told us something important:
the soul cannot hide here.
Everything has to be seen.
Everything has to be confronted.
And eventually, the beast has to be dealt with.
For now, though, John is still being stripped of the world he knew.
The landscape has been devastated.
The body has been tormented.
The old self is being shredded.
There seems almost nothing left.
And then, amongst all this brutality, another enormous figure appears.
He doesn't crawl from the pit.
He comes down from Heaven.
Chapter 8: The Mighty Angel — Sweet as Honey, Bitter Within
Something Different Descends
After the violence of the bottomless pit, the vision changes again.
John has watched the world around him torn apart. His connection to the corporeal self has been attacked, grieved for and increasingly stripped away.
Then, amongst all that destruction, an enormous figure descends from Heaven.
The mighty angel appears high on the left of the central painting, clothed in cloud, with a rainbow around his head, his face illuminated like the sun and his feet descending as great pillars of fire.
These details are important because we have seen their language before.
They take us back to the throne.
The rainbow echoes the rainbow and emerald light surrounding it.
The brilliance of the angel's face recalls the sun at its centre.
Thunder and lightning return us to the immense energy radiating from it.
The connection is deliberate.
I don't see this angel as an independent divine personality arriving with power of his own. Like the seven trumpet angels before him, he is an extension of God — carrying that presence outwards into the vision.
The source remains the same.
Its form changes.
A Voice That Carries the Same Power
His mouth is opened impossibly wide.
Inside it is lightning.
The mighty angel cries out and the seven thunders answer.
Again, there is thunder.
Again, lightning.
And looking back, I wonder whether something I experienced years earlier found its way into this painting.
While living in New Zealand, I once experienced an almighty thunderstorm.
The crack of the lightning was so intense that it genuinely scared the life out of me. It was quite literally biblical in its power.
You don't simply hear thunder like that.
You feel it.
For a moment, you become intensely aware of how small you are beside the forces surrounding you.
Perhaps that experience stayed somewhere inside me.
When I later came to give form to the thunder, lightning and immense voice described in Revelation, I already understood something of what that combination of light, sound and raw power could feel like.
Terrifying.
But magnificent.
And that contradiction is becoming increasingly important throughout this artwork.
Something can be glorious and terrifying at exactly the same time.
The sun at the centre of the throne gives life and comfort, yet it can also burn and destroy.
Lightning can illuminate the entire world for a split second, while its power frightens us.
Thunder can be magnificent, yet make the body instinctively recoil.
Perhaps this is why these forces became so useful to me when trying to give form to something divine.
They are beautiful.
They touch us physically.
But they also remind us that we are very small.
Making the Voice Visible
But there was another problem.
How do you paint a voice capable of sounding like thunder?
For me, the answer was lightning.
Lightning and thunder belong to the same event. We see one and hear the other.
So I placed lightning inside the mighty angel's open mouth, allowing the invisible force of his voice to become something visible.
It also continues something that has been developing throughout the painting.
Mouths matter.
The Son of Man speaks through a double-edged blade, reminding us that truth can cut both ways.
The martyrs reveal their inner souls through flames emerging from their mouths.
The seven angels become the trumpets themselves, their voices carrying the word of God.
And now the mighty angel speaks through lightning and thunder.
Again and again, something invisible within is given a physical form.
A soul becomes flame.
A command becomes a trumpet.
A voice becomes lightning.
Perhaps that is another consequence of trying to paint Revelation.
I had to find a way of making the unseen visible.
The Little Book — Sweet and Bitter
In the angel's hand is the little book.
John is told to take it and eat it.
In his mouth it will be sweet as honey.
In his belly it will become bitter.
That contradiction immediately interested me, and I wanted the book itself to physically embody the transformation.
The pages are formed like honeycomb, but painted across them is a blue sky filled with clouds, signifying ascension.
The book is already pointing upwards.
It suggests movement away from the corporeal world and towards whatever John is becoming.
But the sweetness doesn't remain sweet.
The honeycomb pages appear to drip downwards, gradually transforming into a bitter root.
So the book doesn't simply contain the message.
It becomes the message.
Sweetness.
Bitterness.
Ascension.
Transformation.
All contained within one small object.
By this point, John has already learnt that transformation doesn't offer only comfort. Knowledge can be wonderful to receive and painful to understand. Truth can nourish us while forcing us to confront things we might rather not know.
We have encountered this before.
The double-edged sword from the mouth of the Son of Man warned us that truth has two edges.
Now John is being asked to go further.
He has to consume that truth.
He cannot simply witness it from a distance. It must enter him and become part of him.
The blue sky and clouds upon the pages suggest where that knowledge might ultimately lead, but the bitter root reminds us that getting there is not without pain.
Perhaps that is another part of John's transformation.
The sweetness is in receiving the knowledge.
The bitterness comes with understanding it.
And the ascension comes from carrying both.
What Does John Carry Now?
By now, almost everything that once defined John has been challenged.
His body has been left behind.
His attachment to the corporeal self has been conquered, fought, starved and allowed to die.
He has grieved for the world he knew.
That world has been torn apart around him.
The destruction has moved from the landscape towards the body itself.
The bottomless pit has opened.
The old self has been increasingly stripped away.
And now, after all that removal, John is asked to consume something.
That feels important to me.
Something new is entering him.
Not possessions.
Not wealth.
Not status.
Not any of the things through which we construct our earthly identities.
Knowledge.
Perhaps moving forward isn't about becoming empty.
Perhaps it is about changing what we carry.
And even this new knowledge isn't pure sweetness.
It contains bitterness too.
John isn't being rewarded with an easy answer. He is being given something that must be absorbed, understood and carried forward.
Perhaps wisdom isn't simply knowing what is beautiful.
Perhaps it is being able to contain both the sweet and the bitter without turning away from either.
The Presence Without a Face
The mighty angel also brings me back to something I have questioned throughout the creation of this work.
What does God actually look like?
I have never been entirely comfortable with simply giving God a human face.
At the centre of the throne, I used the sun.
Here, that same presence is suggested through the things surrounding the mighty angel.
The rainbow.
The sun-like face.
The thunder.
The lightning.
The fire.
They echo the throne without needing to reproduce it.
That matters to me.
Perhaps something supreme doesn't need a recognisable body in order for us to sense its presence.
Perhaps it can be understood through what emanates from it.
Light.Energy.Sound.Warmth.Power.
The mighty angel carries those signatures with him.
And perhaps my memory of that enormous New Zealand thunderstorm helped me understand why.
I couldn't see the force creating that extraordinary sound.
But I certainly knew it was there.
I could feel it.
Towards the Ark
Beyond the mighty angel, the heavens begin to turn.
The clouds form a great swirling movement, drawing the eye upwards through the painting towards the golden Ark in Heaven.
That change of direction is important.
So much of the previous imagery has pulled us downwards.
Into destruction.
Into smoke.
Into the bottomless pit.
Into the most brutal parts of the corporeal self.
Now the composition begins to pull us upwards again.
John has been stripped.
He has grieved.
He has suffered.
He has been forced to let go.
And now he has been given something new to carry.
Knowledge.
Sweet and bitter together.
The journey was never about destruction simply for the sake of destruction.
Everything being taken away is making room for transformation.
Something still lies beyond it.
And within those swirling clouds, close to the gateway towards the Ark, stand two figures dressed in sackcloth.
The two witnesses.
John's journey continues.
Chapter Nine — The Two Witnesses, the Ark and the Woman
The Journey Turns Upwards
After the violence, smoke and destruction below, the movement of the painting begins to change.
The eye is drawn upwards.
Clouds spiral through the sky towards the golden Ark in Heaven, and within them stand the two witnesses, clothed in sackcloth.
By this point, John has been through an extraordinary process of loss.
The world he knew has been attacked.
The corporeal self has been stripped away.
He has experienced the grief of letting go of himself.
The little book has given him something new to carry — knowledge that is both sweet and bitter, its blue sky and clouds already suggesting ascension.
Now the painting begins physically to take him there.
The Two Witnesses
The two witnesses stand within the clouds, close to the passage towards the Ark.
Revelation describes them through the imagery of two olive trees and two candlesticks, and I wanted both ideas present.
The candlestick symbolism takes me back to the seven churches earlier in the painting.
For me, a candlestick is a beacon.
It holds a light so that something can be found.
That becomes particularly appropriate here because John has travelled through so much darkness.
The witnesses aren't simply figures standing in his path. Their light suggests direction.
A way forward.
The olive tree adds another quality — something living, rooted and enduring, but also a symbol of peace.
After so much war, destruction and torment, that feels particularly important. Peace hasn't necessarily been reached yet, but it is being shown to John as something that still exists and something towards which he can travel.
The candlesticks offer light and direction.
The olive trees offer life and peace.
After so much destruction, these symbols remind us that neither has disappeared.
Life, light and the possibility of peace remain.
Why Sackcloth?
The witnesses are clothed in sackcloth.
There is nothing grand about them.
They don't carry the visual magnificence of the throne or the terrifying power of the mighty angel.
That humility matters.
John has spent this journey losing the things through which human beings so often define themselves — possessions, status, physical identity and power.
And here, close to something as extraordinary as the Ark, the witnesses appear without any of that decoration.
They don't need it.
Their importance comes from what they carry, not what they wear.
Their light is enough.
The Beast Rises Again
But even here, the journey isn't allowed to become comfortable.
A beast rises from the bottomless pit and makes war upon the witnesses.
Once again, the beast appears.
And I think that repetition matters.
Every time the journey seems to move towards light, something darker returns.
The beast is persistent.
It changes form.
It reappears.
It refuses simply to disappear because John has passed through another stage of his transformation.
Perhaps the beast cannot simply be escaped.
Perhaps eventually it has to be confronted.
For now, I wanted that question to remain open.
John isn't free of it yet.
The Ark in Heaven
Beyond the witnesses is the Ark.
Gold against the swirling sky.
It sits above the turmoil below, almost as though the entire movement of the painting is beginning to draw towards it.
For me, its position matters as much as the object itself.
Earlier, the vision dragged us downwards.
Into fire.
Into blood.
Into smoke.
Into the bottomless pit.
Now the direction has reversed.
We are moving upwards.
That doesn't mean John's journey has suddenly become easy.
The little book has already shown us that ascension contains both sweetness and bitterness. The witnesses are attacked. The beast is still present.
But something has changed.
John is no longer simply being stripped of what he was.
There is now a sense of movement towards what he might become.
The Woman Clothed with the Sun — The Earth Reborn
Then another extraordinary vision appears.
A woman clothed with the sun, the moon beneath her feet and a crown of twelve stars upon her head.
She is pregnant.
For me, this woman represents the Earth itself.
The Earth continually creates, loses and creates again. Seasons die and return. Life emerges, disappears and is replaced by new life.
She is therefore not simply carrying a child.
She embodies rebirth.
And that becomes particularly important because of what John has already witnessed.
The sun has been darkened.
The moon has become blood.
The stars have fallen.
The heavens as John knew them have already been torn apart during the seals.
Yet here they are again.
A sun.
A moon.
Twelve stars.
To me, these are no longer simply the same celestial bodies that belonged to the world John left behind.
They signify a new beginning.
The old sun, moon and stars have been destroyed, and now different ones appear around a figure carrying new life.
The woman is surrounded by them because, for me, she is also part of God.
The sun connects her to the radiating light at the centre of the throne. The moon and stars place her within that same immense order.
She belongs to the Earth, but she is also connected to something far greater than it.
And perhaps that is why she can do something John still cannot.
She can escape the beast.
Taking the Soul With Her
The great red dragon waits.
Seven heads.
Ten horns.
Seven crowns.
It threatens the new life she carries, but it cannot possess her.
The woman escapes into the wilderness, given eagle's wings to carry her away.
For me, she is showing John something enormously important.
There is a way through.
If the woman represents an Earth capable of continual death and regeneration, then I see her as taking John's soul with her — carrying it into that same possibility of renewal.
John has already been stripped of his corporeal identity.
He has grieved for himself.
His old world has been destroyed.
He has been shown ascension.
But the beast remains.
The woman demonstrates that its presence doesn't mean the journey has failed.
She escapes it.
And symbolically, John's soul escapes with her.
The Great Flood — Letting Emotion Go
But the beast doesn't surrender easily.
The serpent releases a great flood from its mouth after her.
Water has always carried a particular meaning within my work.
Emotion.
So I don't see this flood simply as another act of physical destruction.
It becomes an enormous outpouring of emotion.
And perhaps, after everything John has endured, that has to happen too.
Grief.
Fear.
Pain.
Attachment.
The anguish of losing the self.
These things cannot simply disappear because the body has gone.
They have to be released.
The great flood becomes that release — an overwhelming surge of emotion that is finally allowed to pour out, flow away and wash clean.
The beast unleashes it, but the water cannot destroy the woman.
She survives.
The emotion passes.
And the journey continues.
A New Beginning
This is why the woman belongs at the end of the central painting for me.
She brings so many of its ideas together.
John began this vision apparently dying, his body curled into a foetal position.
The Alpha and Omega placed beginning beside ending.
The Lamb appeared as a child.
The metal seals carried symbols of life, cycles, growth and regeneration.
The corporeal self was conquered, fought, starved and allowed to die.
John grieved for the loss of himself.
The old world was torn apart.
The sun was darkened.
The moon became blood.
The stars fell.
And now sun, moon and stars appear again around a pregnant woman representing an Earth capable of continually renewing itself.
Something has ended.
Something else is beginning.
But the beast is still there.
John has been shown that escape is possible, but he hasn't yet learnt what must ultimately be done with the beast itself.
That comes later.
For now, the woman gives him something he desperately needs.
Not an ending.
A way forward.
The End of the Painting — But Not the Journey
And this is where the central painting comes to an end.
When I began trying to give form to Revelation, I was confronted by extraordinary descriptions of destruction, beasts, angels, fire, blood, death and impossible visions.
But somewhere within all that chaos, I began to see something else.
I stopped seeing only the end of the world and began to see the end of a world.
John's world.
His corporeal existence.
John begins by falling as though dead, yet I placed his body in the foetal position — death already carrying the suggestion of birth.
From there, everything he once understood about being human begins to fall away.
He is seen completely.
Welcomed into death.
Shown how far he still has to travel.
He must conquer his attachment to himself, war with it, starve it and finally allow it to die.
Then he must grieve for it.
And perhaps that is why Revelation becomes so terrifying.
When we lose somebody we love, grief can make it feel as though the world has ended.
But what would it feel like to grieve yourself?
Your body.
Your identity.
Your memories.
The people you love.
Everything you have ever known.
Perhaps it really would feel like the end of the world.
So John's world is torn apart.
And then the destruction comes closer.
His body is attacked.
What remains is shredded.
The bottomless pit opens and the beasts begin to emerge.
Yet running alongside all this brutality is another story.
Rebirth.
Alpha and Omega.
The foetal body.
The child upon the throne.
The spirals and symbols of life within the metal seals.
The souls rising towards the light.
The little book carrying its sky and clouds towards ascension.
The candlesticks offering a beacon.
The olive trees offering peace.
And finally, the woman.
The Earth.
Pregnant and surrounded by a new sun, moon and stars after the old heavens have been destroyed.
She escapes the beast and, in my interpretation, carries John's soul forward with her.
Even the great flood released after her becomes part of that transformation — the accumulated grief, fear and emotion finally allowed to pour out and wash away.
Perhaps that is why I needed this artwork to shine and terrify at the same time.
Death and rebirth sit together.
Beauty and brutality sit together.
Light and darkness sit together.
Just as Alpha and Omega have done from the beginning.
But there is one thing John hasn't escaped.
The beast.
It has appeared again and again in different forms, following him through the vision.
And perhaps that is because some things cannot simply be left behind.
Some things have to be confronted.
The central painting ends here.
But John's transformation does not.
The gates still have another story to tell.
And the beast is waiting.
Continue the Journey Through Revelation
You have travelled through the first part of my interpretation of the Book of Revelation, but John's vision is far from finished.
From here, you can continue deeper into the artwork, step back and see the complete piece, or go behind the scenes to discover how it was physically created.
Continue into the beasts, the false prophet and Babylon before the darkness finally gives way to the New Jerusalem, the Tree of Life and the light beyond. This is also where I explore what creating this extraordinary piece ultimately did to me — and how a journey that terrified me changed the way I think about death.
Step back from the individual visions and see the complete artwork as one enormous sculptural book, bringing together painting, metal, stained glass, symbolism and light.
Go behind the finished work through my original sketches, early paintings, metalwork, stained glass and construction photographs, and see how John's extraordinary visions gradually became a physical object.
Journal One has taken you inside the vision.
Journal Two takes you through the darkness — and towards the light.
This is so incredible. I discovered this recently and I've returned to admire it a number of times, it's genuinely so mind-blowing. Just wow!!!