I sat on the balcony, flicked the ash off the end of my fag, got cross with myself for some reason - but at least the sun was kind. . . I thought about years and years ago - when I took a sculpture evening class. . . one night we had a male model, who posed naked in three different arrangements of flesh and body in thirty minutes: each pose a variation of a tightly clenched ball of a man, arms wrapped around legs and head tucked right in, a proud strong back showing every bone of the spinal column, feet either pushed out from under bent legs or hidden away under the body, arms folded over the head as if to protect the skull from some oncoming force, hands clenched together or relaxed around the edges of the torso - all we were allowed to do was sketch him really quickly; during the remainder of the evening (about an hour-and-a-half) we had to create three small clay sculptures from our three ten-minute sketches. . .
.

in retrospect these thoughts remind me of the
Vigeland Sculpture Park in Oslo -
altho I don't think now
that that was what was on my mind at the time

. . .I ended up with three little neat balls of rolled up, muscle bound man, each just the right size to sit comfortably in the palm of a hand with outstretched fingers holding it securely and feeling comfortably heavy but not overburdening the wrist; the clay hardened (I couldn't afford to have my sculptures cast, but some people in the class did): I loved them! they were some of the best "things" I had/have ever created, and I kept them together for years on the hearth of whatever house I was living in; eventually they disintegrated, as the things you love are often wont to do. . .

It's a little bit funny this feeling inside
I'm not one of those who can easily hide
I don't have much money but boy if I did
I'd buy a big house where we both could live

If I was a sculptor, but then again, no
Or a man who makes potions in a travelling show
I know it's not much but it's the best I can do
My gift is my song and this one's for you

And you can tell everybody this is your song
It may be quite simple but now that it's done
I hope you don't mind
I hope you don't mind
That I put down in words
How wonderful life is
While you're in the world

I sat on the roof and kicked off the moss
Well a few of the verses, well they've got me quite cross
But the sun's been quite kind while I wrote this song
It's for people like you that keep it turned on

So excuse me forgetting but these things I do
You see I've forgotten if they're green or they're blue
Anyway the thing is what I really mean
Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen
.
ELTON JOHN

4 comments:

Steg said...

The "things" may disintegrate, sweetheart but the love never does.

The "things" may be gone, changed beyond all recognition or still with us and only our feelings for them have changed. The love we had for them originally still shapes us to some degree, though. Whether we still love them or not.

*hugs*

Mel said...

Oh, I agree with steg--while you were shaping those figures, those figures had a hand in shaping you.

The closest I can come--is those silly handprints in clay.
Oh wait......there's that plasticine himself bought me--and the Were-Rabbit!

k......Not exactly a work of art, but!

Beautifully written, btw.
I eagerly await the next sculpting..

moreidlethoughts said...

Steg is right.
And it's lovely to have you back (my silly notifier has stopped notifying so I'm 'way behind on my reading.Bah!)

mig bardsley said...

I did a picture once in oil pastels on polystyrene that I loved. It disintegrated bit by bit and I've always remembered it. Better than ones I have stashed away upstairs somewhere.

I think a thing you've made that you can only keep in memory is a starting point for something new. You know in your heart you can never make it again so you have to move on to something else. That's not really meant to be a metaphor for your situation, it's just a thing that taught me (a little bit) about letting go.