1963, birch polychrome wood, size 150.5 x 46.5 x 32 cm
In my workroom, I had a large block of birch wood; it forked at the top into two mighty limbs. This block served as a workshop I never had; I propped on it every material I meant to carve out of; the upper bough of the block held every piece of wood, not allowing it to slip, and the trunk served as my stool; and then in this wood I saw a promising composition of Christ. For the vision not to escape me, I laid aside the Christ with the little rooster I was working on and started carving. The sculpting was going well; I found the angle of the outstretched arm and several times made sure that it was right, because on it I meant to lean the head, exhausted with unendurable pain and full of silent complaint. Time flew by unnoticed, and I came to my senses only when dusk filled my workroom; lunchtime in the canteen had long gone by, but I succeeded in making a very beautiful head full of tragedy and managed to locate the other arm.
After a rather long rest I took to carving the legs; I worked tirelessly until my eyes started to sting; it was time to go to bed. The next day I returned to completing Christ with the little rooster; not to let the previous day’s sculpture tempt me, I turned it upside-down and covered it with sawdust, and so it still served as my workshop; however, I did not carve long. (…) On my way home from school, I pondered how to convey the concept of friendship-as-bond. When I got home I decided to return to the birch woodwork, I felt like completing it; I shook off the sawdust, took a look, and at once I knew that the sculpture needed another head that would express death-silence. I had enough material, I took to carving, it went easy enough; throughout my life I had seen my share of dead people, as in my home village it was a custom to pray over coffins. I named the sculpture the two-headed Christ.