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Among the locals of the town, the artist was known as the madman.
He could be seen working in his studio at all hours of the night,
then, during the day, exhausted from his labors, he would sleep
on the benches in the town square. Sometimes he would ask passers-by
for coins so he could eat. Clearly, he was a little out of his mind.
But had these locals taken the time to peer in the windows late
at night when he was at work, they would have seen that he was a
little something more than just crazy – he was obsessed. And,
to the objective eye, rightly so. True, he was obsessed with his
own vision, but what a vision! A thing of pure ecstatic transporting
beauty! Anyone with such a vision would certainly work as hard,
if not harder, than the artist.
Were you, as we say, to look into that window, you would not only
see him working, but you would see his tools of craft. His giant
sculptor’s table, his spatula and his blade, his vats of clay,
his wood and bronze for casting, his candles burnt down to the base,
and, of course, his bottle of liquor. All there in service of his
vision.
O, yes, the vision. What was it? Why did it possess him so? What
could be so compelling that it could affect a man’s entire
concept of space and time and self?
It was, of course, a woman. Or it could be a woman. For you see,
the artist was actually working on the sculpture of a woman. A lifesize
sculpture, done in the very shape of the woman of his dreams, with
all the perfect features. The very woman that had haunted his fantasies
for years, but now, because he was the artist, he had the power
to recreate it, and, he hoped, make it live.
For that was his ultimate goal, that he should love the sculpture
as he might a real woman, and through that love, it might become
as a real woman. At least, he thought, real enough to satisfy him
for the rest of his years. Do you think he’s crazy? Well,
listen on.
Were you to be looking in on one particular night, the night, it
so happens, when he was coming to the final etchings in the clay
of his statue, and her final features were beginning to appear –
long pendulous breasts with round perfect nipples, somewhat wide
and roundish hips, perfect little toes, deep compelling eyes, the
perfect ass and pudendum. He had her exactly as he wanted her, and
at the minute she was done, he let out a muffled scream, and what
happens next only he saw. She moved!
She moved and she reached out to him and she embraced him and gave
him her love, the love of the created to the creator, of the thing
to the mind, of the species to the ideal. He had made her perfect,
and now she would make him happy. She would satisfy him with his
vision. She would fill him with the life he had given her thru love.
Do you still think he’s mad?
Join Met-Art to see this remarkable series.
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