Before me stands a slab of marble, pale and smooth. In my hands, a hammer and chisel. Inside this block of rock I’m faced with, the statue I’m yet to carve already exists. As a beam of sunlight filters in through the window of my art studio, it casts a shadow on the stone’s bone-white surface, as if tracing the outline of the shape yet to emerge from within. All I have to do is chip away the excess to uncover it.
As I raise my tools to deliver the first strike though, I hesitate. I don’t doubt my skill. What gives me pause here is the decision I’m committing to. If I carve a statue from this block, I’ll be destroying a multitude of other potential statues that still lie buried within. This stone still has the potential to be any one of these possibilities. Venus, Apollo, Thor, Ra, and The Flying Spaghetti Monster are all buried within the rock, but once it’s been carved, its form is set. Ony one statue can be the one that gets carved. The rest will all vanish into the ether of never-were.
So, which muse am I to pay tribute to with this work? Who do I deem most worthy?
Venus, Goddess of love and beauty? Admirable a choice as she may be, I’m sure she’s got plenty of other chunks of rock carved in her likeness already. What would she say, I wonder?
“Why thanks, I’m flattered. It’s only the thousandth time. Also, why do you people never give me any clothes? I know I’ve got a lovely figure, but still, letting me have some modesty would be nice, occasionally.”
Okay, maybe I should carve Apollo instead? A very apt choice given his affiliation with the arts. Would I prefer him holding a lyre or a bow though? That suddenly seems as hard a decision as who to pick in the first place. I could do both, but that seems silly. You can’t pluck a lyre if your other hand is holding a bow, and you can’t draw a bowstring back if you’re also clutching a lyre, even if you are a God.
Okay, how about Thor? Always a crowd pleaser, that one. God of thunder, strong, powerful, big muscle man with his hammer Mjolnir; the thing that smashes. But how could my hammer, this mere tool of a lowly artist that I hold in my hand compare to his divine instrument of monster-squashing might? I almost feel like a pretender standing in his shadow. I might as well invite a thunderbolt being dropped on my head for such a petty effort.
Perhaps Ra then? Falcon-headed sun God, patron of light and warmth. Without that burning orb in the sky that we associate him with, none of us would be here. To reduce such an all-important cosmic force as the sun to a lowly symbol carved of cold, white stone almost seems an insult though. Sure, I could coat the finished product with gold to give it a more appropriate gleam, but I don’t have that kind of money.
The Flying Spaghetti Monster maybe? A God associated with absurdity, a statement of mockery directed at the nonsensicality of religious myths and supernatural deities. Amusing sure, but is that what I’m about? Reducing my art to a mere joke?
Of course, there’s plenty of other Gods I could settle on, although some might upset certain people if I carve them wrong, or at all in some cases. Until I’ve made up my mind though, they’re all trapped in this block of marble, and only one of them can be unearthed.
Closing my eyes, I reach out to place my hand upon the stone’s surface. Who do you want to be? I think, wondering if I can somehow commune with the spirt of my desired muse as they yearn to emerge. You’re all in there. Which one of you wants to get out the most?
Which of you embodies the quality I most value? I question. Is it Venus with her elegance, Apollo’s passion, Thor’s strength, Ra’s light, or The Flying Spaghetti Monster’s humour? Which aspect of existence do I pay homage to? Which trait do I immortalise?
Then suddenly, a realisation hits me. I am the one holding the hammer here; the one who’s choice it is. I hold the power to shape the emotions and feelings of whomever may one day stand before this statue and gaze upon it. The artwork will speak to them, and I get to play a role in what it will say. For the moment, the power these Gods wield in what they symbolise and inspire in the eyes of onlookers is at the mercy of my decision.
My brow tightens, my muscles tense, and with determined purpose, I raise my hammer and drive chisel into rock. The sound of it rings throughout the studio, almost like a trumpet sounding in announcement. The work has begun.
With every follow-up strike, I feel the stone reverberate, almost as if the whispers echoing through its structure are the voice of my muse themself. As more and more fragments fall away, the essence the figure beneath is slowly revealed, as though the declaration of their existence is growing ever louder.
I continue chiselling away rhythmically. Minutes turn to hours, hours to days, and days into weeks. Time seems to stand still while I work, only resuming its run whenever I stop to rest. The blissful, focused trans I experience while carving gives way to a sudden surge of exhaustion whenever I put down my tools for the day. But I press on, continuing to give form to my creation. It is arduous, but as the curves and edges become more and more pronounced, my hope and excitement continue to build.
Finally, as the last few seconds of the final day of work come around, my hammer and chisel sing the last notes of their song and I set them down. I step back, close my eyes, stretch to relieve the ache of my burning muscles, and inhale deeply. Savouring the moment for just a tiny bit longer, I then slowly open my eyes.
Before me stands a figure, perfect in its embodiment of the muse I chose. They perfectly encapsulate the very qualities that moved me to immortalise them.
And yet… despite my choice, I’ve also found a way to create something that makes me think of all the many other qualities that had me so indecisive as to which patron to settle on. There is beauty and a sense of love in the work itself, passion in its details, strength in its firmness, brightness in the way its surface shines, and whimsical charm in how it brings all of these aspects together. In choosing this deity’s likeness, I’ve somehow still managed to pay tribute to all of the many possible muses that had inspired me in the beginning.
I smile with satisfaction, rubbing the sweat from my brow. Reaching out once again, my fingers trace the sculpture’s curves and contours, admiring its form. You were always in there, I think. And I’m very glad I found you.
I take a step back, folding my arms as I bask in the satisfaction of my completed task. I’ve not just carved a sculpture, I’ve made something that invites emotions, given form to flavour, captured a whole experience in a single, static shape.
The sun’s rays beam through the window of my studio once again, casting a shine on the sculpture before me. A realisation suddenly dawns on me as my work’s beauty is enhanced by this little touch of nature. It was never about picking just one, I think to myself. It was about finding a way to see all of the many aspects that moved me to craft this work within it. In the end, I find myself recognising that the symbol, the monument, the artwork’s intent is not so important as the way one choses to look at it. It was the very choice to look at it as everything it could possibly be that saw me capture a little bit of every one of those aspects I envisioned.
And maybe it is sad that there were other muses who did not get to be the one that took form; other statues that could have been. But still, it’s not all bad news for them, and do you know why? Because I live next to a marble quarry.
Benjamin Kirkby 