How an Artist Makes a Sculpture

I asked once when I was small

In the mystifying town of Firenze

How an artist made a sculpture.

Before me was Michelangelo’s masterpiece

And a picture of the stone from which he emerged.

My mother explained to me

That an artist saw not a piece of marble or stone

But rather what was hiding inside

And an artist simply knew

Which rocks were the special ones

A few hits of a hammer

And voila!

There it was.

Michelangelo saw a misshapen piece of marble

And recognized that his beloved David lay inside.

Lying in wait

Itching to be released.

This had to be truth.

How else could David’s curls look so unruly yet so contained?

How could the folds of fabric in Pontius Pilate’s robes

look as though they are capable of shifting

With just a simple touch?

How else could Mary’s eyes be filled with such life

While somehow lacking in the eyes of her son

As he his limp body lay draped upon her lap?

How can one almost see the gentle breeze

As it kissed the hair upon the head

of Aphrodite?

How can we almost taste the twisted deliciousness

Of the forbidden fruit?

How through the monochrome stone

One can still see the crimson flushed skin

Of two lovers in the Trevi Fountain?

I yearned to glean the secret of the artist

And his incredible ability

To appreciate the complexity and fluidity of nature

And capture its essence.

My mother showed me great works of art

As we traveled the many countries of Europe

During our four year stay in Germany.

She brought to my life

A thousand hues

She displayed for me

The incredible feats performed by the many artists

That came before me.

She taught me how to see.