The most prominent sight on the battlefield of Waterloo is a 148-foot high earthen mound topped by a huge cast iron lion. It marks the spot where the Prince of Orange, a Dutch general who was on the staff of England's Duke of Wellington, was wounded during the battle. He was but one of the nearly 50,000 who were injured or killed here on June 18, 1815. Nearly 200 years later, the Battle of Waterloo still holds a terrible fascination. This, the battle’s most prominent monument, symbolizes an extreme moment in time – a remembrance of a single day when 200,000 men dressed in a gaudy costumes, and massed in enormous ranks, marched to the beat of drums and the blare of trumpets into a hail of bullets, exploding cannon balls, flailing swords and stabbing bayonets. After this day, the political, social, and economic history of Europe would never be the same again. I intend this to be more than just a post card picture of a monument. It is also an image metaphorically representing sadness, mourning, yet also the possibility of renewal. Waterloo was a turning point in history. To create this metaphor, I waited for a huge rain cloud to nearly cover the sun so I could abstract and subdue the symbolic power of the great lion, and replace it with this dark, brooding symbol of overwhelming loss. The size of the massive rain cloud dwarfs the lion and the hill upon which it stands. Meanwhile, the sun continues to work free of the cloud cover, symbolizing the two centuries of revitalization that followed the Napoleonic wars. On steps leading to the top are two tiny figures, incongruously small as they halt for a moment of respite on their long climb to the summit. To me, they symbolize the common man, small in size yet eventually destined to rise above the servitude and tyranny of the past. In the years following the Battle of Waterloo, it would be ordinary people who would ultimately drive the engine of history, instead of the kings, bishops, nobles, and emperors.