Lucky Clover [Kleeblatt]

There are forces we cannot see, and moments that arrive without warning—neither earned nor deserved. We call it chance. Fortune. Fate. But beneath those names is something quieter, older: a strange and persistent grace.

This sculpture does not speak of luck like we are used to hearing it. It does not sparkle with certainty, nor does it promise outcomes. Small and self-contained, it leans gently inward, as if listening. Its black ceramic skin, lined with seams of gold, suggests not victory, but survival. Not perfection, but presence. A ribbon of clover green rubber wraps near its core—an unexpected touch, soft and bright, like a breath of something growing where nothing should. It is not decoration. It is a declaration: even here, there is renewal.

Mounted on a red soapstone base, the form holds weight in its stillness. It is rooted, but not rigid. Both antlers rising with determination ... reaching beyond what can be seen. Light clings to the lightless glaze, catching on subtle ridges and the gold that runs like veins—traces of where the form once fractured, then chose to be made whole again, visibly.

This is not luck as charm or talisman. It is not something to carry in your pocket or whisper over dice. This is luck as encounter: the moment when what we are given—unexpected, undeserved, is not what we asked for, but exactly what we needed. It does not come with noise. It does not insist. It arrives, like this form, small and still and utterly complete.

From a distance, you might miss it. But step closer, and you’ll notice: one eye cast outward, watching the world; the other turned inward, holding your reflection. It does not ask to be understood. It does not offer certainty. It invites only one thing: to be seen, without explanation.

Luck, in this space, is not a gift handed down from something higher. It is the simple, radical truth that we are not alone. That something has noticed us. That something has held.

The sculpture does not claim to answer the question. It does not define where luck begins or where it ends. But it holds, with quiet strength, the possibility that being seen—truly, without disguise—is not a burden, but a blessing.

And perhaps that is luck’s true shape: not in the winning, but in the witnessing. Not in escape, but in emergence.

This is not an ending. It is the beginning of being met by something unnamed, and knowing, without knowing why, that it matters.

What if luck is not the thing that saves us, but the moment we stop pretending we are not already held?

Details

• Moulded with clay
• Black glazed
• Gold antlers
• Mounted on a soapstone base
• green ribbon
• Height: 25 cm