![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
The Unknown Sculptor
Raphael had never seen such a house before. He knew that there were houses like this on the coast, but he’d only imagined them from the movies he’d seen. His studio apartment was about the size of her foyer. The columned porches that flanked the front and back of the house reminded him of the house in the movie, The Godfather. The decorative façade along the top of the front doorway had a distinctly neoclassical style. Georgia ushered him inside, carefully holding back her own feelings of excitement and pleasure at having a special guest. Part of Raphael’s charm was the innocence and humility that radiated from his dazzled face.
“Do you live here?” He asked incredulously.
“Of course I live here,” she answered with soft, bubbling laughter, “I’m the artist.”
“Are these all of your sculptures?”
“Except for the Roman bust in the front hallway, yes, they’re all mine.”
There were exactly forty-nine sculptures in Georgia’s house, all of them nudes and all of them male. Each year she produced about four and she’d been working indefatigably for almost eighteen years. What the average person noticed about these sculptures, other than the thick granular plaster applied in multiple layers, was that the men of these sculptures were more like gods. They were taller and stronger and more beautiful than human males. They held themselves in triumphant postures, in warrior poses, in serene meditations. Everything about these sculptures possessed the heightened, exalted visions of the artist herself. She was clearly striving for something unavailable on earth. Heaven was her model.
Therefore it came as a surprise to Raphael to think that she would want him to pose for her. In his opinion, he didn’t have anywhere near the physique that was represented in these figures. He’d only put “body-builder” on his resume because he wanted to make himself sound more like a professional model, which he wasn’t. Although these doubts came into his mind, he didn’t say anything. The two of them went from room to room, looking at the sculptures. Astonished by the extensive collection of nudes, the young model burst into rapturous praise about Georgia’s work. He was hoping she would choose him for her next sculpture.
Raphael’s awe of the house and the sculptures produced a strain of giddiness and delight in Georgia. She was taken off guard by the short, black man’s natural charisma and abandoned herself to their idle conversation. Rapheal told her about his job as a waiter in the city and his aspirations to get a degree in computers.
“Computers,” she said, “Why would you want to do a thing like that? Why you would confine yourself to a dull and boring technical career?”
“But I’ve always loved computers,” he said. “Ever since I was a child.”
“I’m sorry Raphael but I don’t see how a computer can be imaginative. What about the human body? What about the face? Have you ever looked at a person’s face? I mean really looked at their face?”
Raphael didn’t have an answer.
“Well, if you’ve ever considered a person’s face and the structure of their face and the unique mold, then you’ll agree with me that Nature, God, or whatever you want to call it, has endowed us with supreme beauty, complex beauty. The Divine is far greater than our own powers of invention and we can only strive in our limited ways to imitate the creativity of the Source, God, or whatever you want to call it.”
“This is true. Yes. This is true.” Raphael said.
When they arrived in the kitchen from their tour of the house, Doyan had poured two glasses of freshly-squeezed lemonade and left them on a serving platter on the counter. Raphael introduced himself to Doyan and asked her what country she was from. She said she was from the Caribbean.
Doyan was twenty-eight years old. She had big, almond-shaped eyes, a rounded face and tough-looking feminine features. She leaned over the counter and pretended to put away some dishes, ignoring Raphael’s natural exuberance but listening to him anyways. He posed a bunch of questions to her about how long she’d been living here and whether she wanted to go back home or not. The maid gave curt, smiling responses. Georgia watched their interaction with pleasure, as if she could see something going on between them that they could not see themselves. She pulled a chair to sit down.
Doyan showed some embarrassment, “Excuse me but I have to check the laundry.”
She proceeded down the long hallway, her uniform sashaying on her hips. Raphael looked at Georgia and smiled in languorous amusement at the maid’s hardened disposition. Then, carrying their lemonades outside, they walked under the shade of a couple lime trees and went toward the pool. The ocean gurgled in the rocks and hissed in the distance.
To read more of the author's work
Visit these sites:
http://www.lethebashar.wordpress.com
http://www.lethebashar.blogspot.com
http://www.escapeintolife.com
To read more of the author's work
Visit these sites:
http://www.lethebashar.wordpress.com
http://www.lethebashar.blogspot.com
http://www.escapeintolife.com