Without narrative sandstone and wretched landmark, people of Western Serbia seem to have never existed. The only portraits and biographies were given to them only after they had died. Their stone masons were also peasants. At the same time they were naive artists, poets, philosophers, or just craftsmen, but they were not indifferent. The stonecutters between the Ibar and Drina rivers, Rudnik and Zlatar mountains, between Serbian uprisings and world wars, anthropomorphized their stones so that the stones could guard their homeland, bitterly lookingforward to one more spring, getting wrinkles from tetter. To die yet again.