Every horseman carries a library.
Mine was never bound in leather.
Its pages were turned by hoofbeats.
The first chapter began with a rocking horse one Christmas morning. Another arrived on the back of a pony named Cotton. Later came the bright lights of the Tar Heel Classic, where polished tack gleamed beneath the evening sky and American Saddlebreds seemed almost too elegant to belong to this world.
There were years spent in the saddle. Quiet hours with a sketchbook. Afternoons at Kentucky farms where horses revealed themselves one gesture at a time.
Penny Chenery added a chapter at her kitchen table.
Melissa Johnson continues to write new ones from her Georgetown farm, where Bella reminds me that grace is never hurried and Clyde proves that every accomplished horseman remains a student.
Those experiences became far more than memories.
They became drawings.
The drawings became sculpture.
And, eventually, gold.
Every piece that leaves my studio carries a page from that library.
The story is still being written.
— Salina Ramsay
Follow along in The Field Book, where the next chapter is always waiting