A short story that journeys with a sculptor as he crafts his magnum opus…
by: Liz Roams
Monday
The sculptor gazes upon the raw block of clay for but a moment before closing his eyes and letting his hands take over. Feeling his way. The pliable material responds to his touch, his palms and fingers and rudimentary tools. The sculptor opens his mind and pours his heart into the piece, his art, his masterpiece.
He works for what feels like days, or weeks, an entire age — but likely no more than a standard 9 to 5. No overtime incurred today.
Opening his eyes, he blinks several times, unaccustomed to the light as he was.
That evening, over whiskey and a cigar, the sculptor congratulates himself on a good day’s work. He knows it is just the beginning, that his creation is only just taking shape. He can’t envisage the end, not yet, but he knows it isn’t too far adrift.
Tuesday
By the pale light of dawn the sculptor begins his day, a few calming breaths to center himself before reaching out to his materials and closing his eyes. Inspiration flows from him to his creation and minutes turn into hours.
As he finishes for the day, the sculptor throws back the shutters and casts his eyes to the vast void above. Perfection.
Wednesday
A challenging day, much to do.
His rituals stay the same. The input constant but the output increasingly intricate. The textures pose a problem for the sculptor. Too solid and unyielding won’t bode well for longevity, and his ego can only see his work as eternal. Too soft, too fluid, it slips between his fingers. His solution — a compromise, an amalgamation. Beauty in diversity.
That evening, the sculptor remains close to his work, marvelling at its simple complexity. Could his project be nearing completion? Perhaps, halfway there.
Thursday
The sculptor prepares his workspace. Raw materials, tools, miscellaneous paraphernalia. When everything is perfectly aligned he gets to work. Only when the newest elements of creation are equally aligned does the sculptor place down his tools and wipe his hands. He can see the stars twinkle above, almost too bright in the absence of light — courtesy of the new moon.
Friday
Unbridled, unrestrained, the sculptor throws caution to the wind and lets his wildest visions take shape. Wings, claws, beaks, gills, tentacles. Everything goes. At this stage, he feels invincible.
His critics will marvel. They will doubt. Too incredible to be true.
Saturday
The sculptor takes his time getting ready for work. He takes time to appreciate his achievement to date. He can’t be sure, but is almost certain — his magnum opus, they may say.
His work on that, the sixth day, is slow and arduous. It takes a lot of trial and error. Some self-reflection. More than a little revising, redrafting and updating. But in the end, he is satisfied. The day is almost done, his self-imposed deadline drawing near, he could tweak and nip, refine and pull, change, modify, and adapt forever and a day and yet perfection could still be a hair’s breadth away. He is satisfied.
Sunday
Sighing with contentment, the sculptor casts his eyes over his creation one final time before turning his back and walking away. “I think I’ll take the day off.”
