Curves and crevasses flowed up and down the eighteen inches of plaster of Paris. I closed my eyes to caress what I felt I must touch to understand. I wanted to occupy the very space the artist had while he shaped the sculpture that sat before me.
He had left the room momentarily and I took advantage of this freedom to finger his work. The smell of clay and wet canvas and crimson reds permeated through the room, though every now and again, a spring breeze from the studio’s open window eased the lingering aromas around me.
My attention returned to the form beneath my hands. I held both palms to it, longing to understand its intricate, provocative shape with my own burdened body. I heard his footsteps then, those of the artist returning to his holy sanctuary . . .