The Sculptor looked at the rough horizontal block of Parian marble in front of him. He walked around it several times examining each facet; every ridge, every indentation, closely and meticulously. Then he stood back, looking away in deep contemplation for what seemed like an age.
What was there within this inanimate object that he could bring to life? What was it that only he could see? What would be the product of his life-long skill and experience; his emotions and passions; his eyes, hands and imagination; his love of form and beauty? How would it be viewed and understood by the onlookers and critics?
Eventually he picked up his chisel and mallet but did not strike. He manipulated the tools in his hands, feeling their shape, their weight, searching for balance. The angle of contact would be important. The force applied would be critical for success or failure. He would be working in the dark initially, trying to uncover what only his creative eye could see. He could not afford to remove anything that would be a part of the final work.
He made the first blow with some trepidation but with increasing confidence the exterior was chipped away to expose the inner truth. The intended form began to emerge slowly but surely. Other tools were used as the finer work of finishing and perfecting the image took all his concentration. Now it was not brute force which was needed but a careful and gentle caressing to refine and redress the surface into a representation of translucent skin and folded fabric.
It was at this final stage that the fault in the marble revealed itself. A rare geological inclusion formed along with the rock but not part of it. It had been there all the time but only became visible in this final stage … the Sculptor recoiled in horror at the blemish, this imperfection, this unexpected end to his commissioned work.
The short, irregular ruddy strip, perhaps some iron-rich mineral, followed a fold in the statue’s side. The Sculptor regained his composure and considered his options. He had never used colour in his creations. He regarded it as a distraction. His skill was to sculpt and polish. To take the raw material and lovingly recreate it into a thing of beauty that no one had ever seen before and could not have imagined existed within that original block of stone. Should he discard months of work on this project and start again? What would continuing with it do for his reputation, for his own self-respect? His creativity was being seriously challenged but then inspiration struck him like the brightness of a summer sunrise.
This flaw was no accident – it would become the raison d’être of the work. The marble itself had provided the finishing touch to his masterpiece – something he would always look back on with humility and awe.
At the public unveiling the Sculptor waited nervously for the cloth to be withdrawn. He closed his eyes so he could better gauge the response of the gathering crowd. There was silence followed by a corporate intake of breath; a murmuring of wonder at how he had done it then the growing acknowledgement that this was something unique. The otherwise politely restrained audience expressed their delight and appreciation with an explosion of unanimous applause.
The Sculptor opened his eyes and looked again at the reclining figure: deathly white, the stigmata of crucifixion subtly crafted into the limbs and head. And that distinctive red stain in the torso, a perfect flaw which made the work priceless.
A small label on the plinth said simply, ‘It is finished!’
© 2017 Graham Oakes