The Marble Beneath My Feet
The Marble Beneath My Feet
In the predawn chill of May 1996, I stood on a smooth slab of marble at Mount Rushmore, the Black Hills cloaked in the quiet of early morning. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp granite, and the monumental faces of Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and Roosevelt loomed above, their granite gazes fixed on the horizon. Beneath my work boots, etched into the marble, were words that stopped me cold: The United States is a grand experiment.
I don’t know who carved them or when, but in that moment, they felt like a message meant for me, a whisper from history itself.
I was there to work on The Stand, my 20’x40’ glass-etched mural for the Mount Rushmore Visitors’ Center. Seven days to create a piece that would honor the buffalo, the Lakota, and the spirit of this land—it was a challenge that set my heart racing. I’d sketched two designs in my Rapid City studio: one of battling buffalo, raw and fierce, and another of a lone white buffalo, sacred and still.
The white buffalo won, its image a nod to the Lakota’s reverence for this rare creature, a symbol of hope and renewal. As I stood on that marble rock, tools in hand, the weight of the moment settled over me like the morning mist.
The quote beneath my feet stirred something deep. The United States as a “grand experiment”—maybe it was Tocqueville’s phrase, or something a Founding Father penned, but here, carved in stone, it felt alive. This nation, built on ideals of liberty and self-governance, was still testing itself, still fragile in its way. The faces above me, carved by Gutzon Borglum and 400 workers, stood for that experiment’s triumphs—Washington’s vision, Jefferson’s audacity, Lincoln’s resolve, Roosevelt’s progress. Yet the land told another story. This was Tȟuŋkášila Šákpe, the Six Grandfathers, sacred to the Lakota, taken in defiance of treaties. To some, this monument was democracy’s shrine; to others, a wound on stolen ground.
I thought back to 1963, when I was a kid standing in the old Buffalo Dining Room, listening to Ben Black Elk share Lakota stories, his voice grounding this place in a deeper history.
Now, in 1996, I was adding my own mark with The Stand, a piece meant to bridge past and present, to honor the buffalo that once thundered across these plains and the people who revered them. The marble rock became my anchor, its quote a lens for my thoughts. Was my art part of this experiment, too? Could a single etched buffalo carry the weight of reconciliation, of honoring both the nation’s promise and its pain?
As the first light of dawn crept over the Black Hills, casting the presidents’ faces in soft gold, I saw the workers’ legacy in every chiseled line—men who climbed 700 steps daily to shape a vision bigger than themselves.
My hands, etching glass, were part of that same story, crafting a tribute to resilience. The United States was an experiment, yes, but so was The Stand. It was my attempt to capture something eternal—the spirit of survival, of standing firm in a world that shifts beneath you. The buffalo, the Lakota, the settlers, the presidents—they all stood here, in their way, part of the same unfinished tale.
I think about that marble rock often, those words under my feet. I don’t know if it’s still there, hidden beneath new pavement or tucked away in some forgotten corner of the memorial. But its message stays with me. In that quiet morning, I felt the pulse of something larger—a nation, an idea, an experiment still unfolding. My buffalo, etched in glass, was my offering to it, a small piece of a story that’s still being written.
Notes from history:
The words on that marble, The United States is a grand experiment, carried the echo of centuries. I later learned they likely drew from Alexis de Tocqueville, the French observer who, in the 1830s, called America’s democracy a bold experiment in self-governance, a nation daring to balance liberty with equality. The Founding Fathers, too, saw their work as experimental—George Washington, in his letters, spoke of the new Constitution as a gamble on the people’s ability to govern themselves, while Jefferson wrote of liberty as an ongoing test, never guaranteed. Standing there in 1996, I felt the weight of their vision, etched not just in marble but in the nation’s soul. The phrase reminded me that America’s story—its triumphs, its failures, its contradictions—is still being tested, still evolving, much like my own art. On that cold May morning, I was part of that experiment, adding my stroke to a canvas far larger than any mountain.