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The Unknown Sculptor
The models came to Georgia’s house one after another. She found herself especially dissatisfied with them. They became restless while waiting for her to make a decision and wandered to the edge of the terrace which overlooked the ocean. The ocean was transparent green at this hour and it made a gushing sound as it leapt into the rocks and flooded the crevices. It was midmorning and uncomfortably warm. The sun’s rays baked the open patios surrounding the house. Doyan was making her rounds, watering the potted plants and the small beds of irises and tulips. Six or seven handsome models paced the terrace irresolutely, their bare backs covered in Chinese robes. Like bunch of errant hens, they stared down at the ground, bumped into each other, grunted and kept pacing.
Without a tinge of remorse, Georgia called out their names, and dismissed them one by one. Many of them thought that she was being cold and unsympathetic. They hung their heads, exchanged their clothing, and left. She didn’t feel sorry for them. Over the years she learned to rely on a bold, intuitive sense that told her yes or no. When she ran an advertisement in a local newspaper, a deluge of calls came in, models with credentials, models with experience. They were handsome, respectable men. They had muscular, athletic bodies. But something was missing and she had to dismiss them.
In her twenty-odd years of sculpting nude males, Georgia believed that there was an indissoluble net which wrapped around the human body. She couldn’t give an exact medical definition of this net but she could discern the net instantaneously and it served as her touchstone. The net represented a unity. If the unity was absent in a model, she dismissed them. It did not matter whether this “net” existed or not. She was neither a surgeon, nor a scientist; she was a sculptor and she relied on the powers of intuition.
Yesterday a model came to her house named Raphael. She had him stand on the moving platform in her studio and she pressed a button which rotated the platform 360 degrees. Raphael went around the room, surprised by the automated whirligig. Georgia studied him intently from the corner of the room. He had a bald, cannon ball-shaped head and a thick goatee. As he went around the room, he smiled a lot, revealing two perfect rows of teeth. Georgia pressed the button to stop the platform. She dropped her arms to her sides and fell down into a tangerine papasan with faded cushions. Deep in thought, she gazed into the middle of the room, breaking her concentration only once or twice to glance back at him. He waited for her to announce his merits or lack of merits as a model when she abruptly removed a cigarette from her breast pocket.
For the first time in her life she was unable to make a simple judgment—“Yes” or “No”.
He didn’t have the conventional build. His height fell under the usual requirements, and he lacked the tall, noble stature of the models you see in California style magazines. But at the same time, his body was lively and energetic. His muscles stretched across his shoulders and upper back like a well-fitted garment. Before making a hasty decision however Georgia recalled the mysterious, elusive net, her touchstone. Was it there? She waited a few minutes for an answer (from the gods?), and took out another cigarette. The chalky smoke filled up the glass studio, and Raphael was secretly disgusted by her careless smoking.
Raphael came to the United States only six months ago. There was a small population of Nigerians in the city, and when he first arrived, he moved in with four friends. They lived in an antiquated apartment building with boarded windows next to a dry-cleaning factory. He worked two shifts as a waiter in a gentrified part of the city, and saved up money so he could go to college at a technical institute. Modeling was one of the many jobs he picked up to survive. This was only his third time.
Raphael’s confidence seemed to make Georgia’s decision more difficult. He had an endearing quality to him, a very affecting personal charm. He spoke English in a heavy Francophone accent and repeated over and over again the phrase, “This is true. This is true.” These qualities made him seem like a good listener. People naturally felt comfortable in Raphael’s presence, and they would tell him things, about their families and their private lives. He listened because he was a good listener, but once in awhile he wanted to tell people about himself and they seemed too self-involved to care. He wasn’t bitter or anything; it just made him think.
“But does he have the sacred unity?” Georgia mused.
Again she pressed the button to the revolving platform; Raphael awoke from his reverie, and went around the room like a sleek mannequin in a shop window. He smiled tirelessly as Georgia studied his body.
She asked him to put his clothes back on and invited him into the house, which was not her usual routine. Usually she told her models to walk around the back of the house, through the pool area. Her husband, however, was out for a stroll today with his nurse, and Georgia decided to have Raphael come inside the house and see the kind of work she did.
to read more work by this author, visit:
http://www.lethebashar.wordpress.com
http://www.lethebashar.blogspot.com
www.escapeintolife.com
to read more work by this author, visit:
http://www.lethebashar.wordpress.com
http://www.lethebashar.blogspot.com
www.escapeintolife.com
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