by C. Hightower
Walking through the homes of mega rich collectors never lost its edge for me—Greco-Roman pools, the vaulted ceilings, double-swing arched iron gates—it was like stepping into a dream world. Though I’d never know luxury like that in my own life—I felt like I’d arrived. Sculpture had always been my calling, and I was finally getting the kind of commissions that made the long years of hard work and sacrifice worth it. I had even been asked to travel from Los Angeles to Hawaii to complete a piece on site for an art advisor in Honolulu named Pell. I didn’t know how Pell had gotten my name or info, but he said the patron was giving me full control and privilege and wished to remain anonymous. It was almost too good to be true. I didn’t even know what material he wanted me to work in. On the phone he had said to give him my details and he’d arrange travel.
“I didn’t agree to come yet,” I had said.
“Oh, you’re coming,” Pell laughed. “You don’t want to miss this.”
“Why me?” I was going no matter what but I didn’t want any messy trouble like last time.
Pell sighed. “You destroyed a work you had spent four years on, right?"
I was surprised he knew but it wasn’t exactly a secret.
“I did. Yeah. It wasn’t perfect. And it wasn’t right."
“That’s the dedication we need for this piece."
I flew To Hawaii the next week.
Pell led me through the halls of the plantation-style mansion, his gait just quick enough that I felt rushed. I took in the sights as best I could. Enormous painting of lush tropical scenes in deep dark wood frames—rushing waterfalls with delicate rainbows against velveteen black, Kilauea at night—glowing magma the only light against pitch-black starry skies. They looked old, like late 1800’s old.
“It was discovered on the ocean floor, just miles from the Solomon Islands. It cost a fortune just to retrieve it, not to mention its purchase and shipping."
“I’ll be honest, I haven’t worked with ocean damage. Marble holds up but I don’t want to make a promise I can’t deliver on."
“It's not an issue,” Pell said. “It’s in pristine condition. Every tool you could need is here and they’re all top of the line.”
The studio was in a conservatory that was nearly as big as the house—thick wooden beams with wide-open rooms. Plastic sheeting was laid out in the corner. Ferns swayed in thickly roped suspension planters, tall bird of paradise and Antherium centerpieces lined the back wall. Long wooden tables displayed every sculpting tool I had ever seen. A massive ten-foot-cubed piece of blue white marble dominated the main room. Pell was by it already, running his hands over it again and again.
He had a glazed, unfocused look to his eyes.
“Untold ages at the ocean floor,” he said to no one in particular.
“Has it been polished ?” I said, breaking his trance.
He gave me a look of disgust.
“No, no one has even seen it but you, me and the owner and we certainly haven’t. This is how it was pulled from the Sea.” Pell was guarding a corner of the stone protectively.
“It’s fine,” I said, “I can still make something amazing with it.”
His mood shifted. “Good. I’m sure whatever you do will be just what it's asking for.”
“It’s funny you say that because I’ve never felt that I create anything. I just carve away what doesn’t belong and free whatever’s inside. That was the theme of my show last year.”
I ran my hand over the stone now. It was as cold as snow in the sunlit studio.
“Very romantic,” said Pell in a clipped way. “I’ll let you start freeing the masterwork then,” and he strode out of the studio.
I got to work immediately, picking up a power drill, beginning to take off a corner, vague impressions crossing my mind. Whenever I made a piece I closed off possibilities until the true vision made itself clear. I had always worked so carefully—not so with the sea marble. I had no image in mind yet I felt that every action I took was the exact one required. Every motion was the right one, total precision. The feeling went beyond creating, it was more like total genesis. Perfect beauty and form arising from itself. It was by far my greatest work.
Pell came every few days to check my progress. I almost felt that I enjoyed having him watch my work. I usually refused for anyone to see an unfinished piece but I was in awe of what I was doing and I wanted him to watch. Each mark I made was a surprise to both of us.
I was completely absorbed in my work one morning when he managed to get my attention. Cutting the tool, I pulled my earmuffs down.
“What’s that figure?" he said, indicating a far end of the stone.
“Well, it’s rough but it’s a man in a feather cape, a King.”
“And this part?" he said.
“Oh, that’s a woman kneeling?”
I don’t know why I said it with doubt, it was clearly a woman kneeling, facing the center of the stone.
“It will look better in the end," I reassured him.
“Hhhmm,” he said.
I put the tool on the ground and walked toward him.
“Did you want to say something?”
I felt they weren’t completely my words, but I couldn’t stop myself, either.
Pell made a defensive gesture, raising his palms.
“Do you not appreciate what I’ve done for you?” I said, slowly forcing him to meet my eyes.
“It isn’t like it’s a favor! You’re being paid a huge amount for your time and craft!”
He was right, of course, but this would not stand. I pressed on.
“You couldn’t do what I do," I said, picking up the drill and placing my face in front of his. “You are not an artist, understand?" I held the trigger of the drill for emphasis.
His eyes moved to its tip.
“Okay. Let’s take a breather,” he said.
“No, that’s the last thing I want to do. You can’t afford to lose me. So if you want this done and done right you had better keep away from me. Or I’ll mar this stone so that No One can salvage it. Got it?”
He bristled but backed down.
“Fine, but I expect a masterwork."
“Right. And that’s exactly what you’re going to get.”
Approaching the kneeling woman, I spent an hour drilling holes in her head, legs and chest. Euphoria rolled over my body in deep waves.
***
Later that night in my room I picked up a book from the bookshelf by my bed. I knew nothing about Captain Cook. He had been killed on the island on Valentine’s Day. His body was treated with the mortuary rites of a high-ranking chief. A person’s mana was believed to be in their bones. Mana. Their power. I collapsed from exhaustion, the book falling from my hands to the floor.
From that day on, except to eat or catch snatches of weak, vigilant sleep, I did not stop working. My body ached. I plunged myself into deep ice baths and took painkillers to continue. The woman’s face was roughed in but it was beginning to take a familiar quality. Some of it looked unworked but anyone with imagination could see where it was going. I worked intently on a group of five kneeling men, each with an affliction marring their body—one had a concave head, another had a long and jagged scar across his back. One had deep lacerations along his chest.
All of a sudden I lost my footing and fell backward, hitting my head hard and knocking the breath from my lungs.
I lay crumpled in agony, my ears ringing. A high pitched whine drove into the center of my brain, vibrating through my spine. When I fell I had taken a huge piece of the marble out. The wailing roar pushed against the back of my eyes, piercing my skull as if to split it.
“Stop!” I cried “I’ll fix it."
Frantically, I searched in the dust for the missing piece but it was no use. My pain turned to rage and fear.
“What do you want !?” I screamed at the statue’s coarse blank eyes. The flawless face I had worked so hard on was ruined. And I knew what it wanted. It wanted power. Perfection.
I started to flee from It. I knew I could leave it, outrun the pleading. But I knew if I left the piece would be unfinished or else completed by a lesser artist and I couldn’t live with that.
I moved to the table and took a very small icepick I hadn’t known was from the selection of tools.
Climbing back onto the sea marble I positioned the tip of the pick to my gums. I knocked its fine point with a mallet until I felt my molar loosen. I dropped the pick and worked the tooth from its hole. With a pair of small shears, I cut the roots. Blood dropped from my Mouth to the statue. The hole was filled perfectly. With a little smoothing you’d never know the difference. I spent the next hour at the base of the statue sobbing in relief. It was perfect. I couldn’t wait to see how it stuck another who could give it the admiration it deserved. What’s seen quickly passes quickly. But a God creeps up on You slowly. Pell, I’m sorry but you need to leave, I thought. Leave the house. Leave the island. And leave It to me.
______
C. Hightower would be nothing without her steady hands.
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