What I See in the Dark
They say that after the loss of one of the senses, the others intensify their perceptiveness. So, I want to sign up for a class in blindfold sculpture of the human body. If it's true what they say, then fumbling around in bandannaed darkness would be a treat. Imagine the model shivering on his dais, one leg crossed over the other, trying for a pose without the artist's guidance.
Smacking a lump of clay into a mound I could work with, I'd then need to touch the model's flesh to see. To find the way into the piece I envision. In my voluntary blindness, would carelessly placed muddy hands on his bare thighs cause a shiver, his skin sprouting little bumps all over as he squirmed into a less vulnerable position on the wood? His closed body, my groping hands in the reddened darkness of a silk hood I've pulled over my head could bring out the hunter in me. Prying apart his thighs to find the crevices and dips in flesh alive with movement, opening each hand, finger by finger, I drop to the floor on all fours to breathe him in.
Then, a tea break. Hot cranberry and ginger to warm up a little, so I can put my hands on him without so much jumping. I rinse my hands in tepid water, dry them on a clean cloth, then braille the fine protrusions and dents, the half circles and curves, curling rounded shapes and tufts of hair, the secret bumps and softnesses of his face. A gentle hand to round off the edges, reach in behind to grasp each ear and tug a little, humming as I work him over, memorizing as I go lower......to jaw and throat, out-jutting adam's apple, clavicles, one in each hand, pinched between thumb and index finger, a meditation on how sound gets into bones.
Could I reproduce all this in a mound of clay? Turn warm flesh, hairy and slightly sweaty from an overhead light, into something of what I had in mind? Or would I need to sing? I've noticed that singing relaxes. It eases an awkward situation, helping the work go smoother.
If I engaged the model in a duet (maybe a low-noted dusky song of love and loss) would he still cringe away from my gritty chilly fingers? If only clay were not so cold. Or the warmth from holding a mug of hot tea lasted longer.
Maybe if I took my own clothes off too. He might be distracted from fumbling chilly fingers on his inner thighs and down behind his knees, my seeking nosy hands that so delight in finding out what makes this man tick. I might place his hands in the mud too, then let him touch himself to see how well I've translated him.
We could both be blindfolded, and then neither would ever quite know the moment of impact of cold snaking finger on naked skin, both continually suspended in an agony of anticipation.
I'd like to work with him standing, me working my way up from bony ankles, those delicate cords reaching to the toes, up muscle-y calves, the hard almost-sharp shin bones, knob of knees with their mysterious moving plates and cartilagenous clicks and pops, the softer widening out of thighs, flare of hip, bones like clenched fists turning this way and that, and then another break. To rinse my hands in hot water before reaching around to grip a handful of each buttock, hear his yelp. Surprise at the little stabs of fingernail into flesh, then a quick upward slide along his spine and then hands off while I go over to the hotplate and turn off the heat.
Later on after tea, after a sandwich or peach, maybe some tangy cheddar, washed down with more hot tea, we go back into the dark again. The clay a lifeless pile on the platform. My hands warm from the mug, from running them over naked flesh, I get down on the floor in a half squat for one more exploration before getting on with the work of shaping clay and making it stand on its own.
I take his hand and lead him to the table, where he stands with arms outstretched as if conducting a symphony or calming a crowd, or maybe just hanging at his sides. I've left the light off as we are both in hoods, neither one quite knowing what will happen next. I plunge hands into a bucket of rinsewater and run them down the clay pile, punching in, squeezing hard in places, mud splattering and running down my arms, the sounds in the room more noticeable now. The water slosh and little sighs, knock of ancient radiator, board creak, wind outside the tall windows, a slap against flank sound that reminds me of horses.
My fingers quickly stiffen till I can hardly work the cold mass, and I ache to touch warm flesh again. It's all I want at this moment, in the darkness, where I'm poised between the thing I make and the heat of human contact. I reach toward the comfort of his body, at the same time itching to take my own life in my hands. To make a living work of art, a thing of beauty bigger than myself, something I can leave behind in the room, that I created out of thousands of afternoons and evenings of agonizing laboring in the dark, of never quite knowing what will come of it, if anyone else will ever see what I see in the dark.
They say that after the loss of one of the senses, the others intensify their perceptiveness. So, I want to sign up for a class in blindfold sculpture of the human body. If it's true what they say, then fumbling around in bandannaed darkness would be a treat. Imagine the model shivering on his dais, one leg crossed over the other, trying for a pose without the artist's guidance.
Smacking a lump of clay into a mound I could work with, I'd then need to touch the model's flesh to see. To find the way into the piece I envision. In my voluntary blindness, would carelessly placed muddy hands on his bare thighs cause a shiver, his skin sprouting little bumps all over as he squirmed into a less vulnerable position on the wood? His closed body, my groping hands in the reddened darkness of a silk hood I've pulled over my head could bring out the hunter in me. Prying apart his thighs to find the crevices and dips in flesh alive with movement, opening each hand, finger by finger, I drop to the floor on all fours to breathe him in.
Then, a tea break. Hot cranberry and ginger to warm up a little, so I can put my hands on him without so much jumping. I rinse my hands in tepid water, dry them on a clean cloth, then braille the fine protrusions and dents, the half circles and curves, curling rounded shapes and tufts of hair, the secret bumps and softnesses of his face. A gentle hand to round off the edges, reach in behind to grasp each ear and tug a little, humming as I work him over, memorizing as I go lower......to jaw and throat, out-jutting adam's apple, clavicles, one in each hand, pinched between thumb and index finger, a meditation on how sound gets into bones.
Could I reproduce all this in a mound of clay? Turn warm flesh, hairy and slightly sweaty from an overhead light, into something of what I had in mind? Or would I need to sing? I've noticed that singing relaxes. It eases an awkward situation, helping the work go smoother.
If I engaged the model in a duet (maybe a low-noted dusky song of love and loss) would he still cringe away from my gritty chilly fingers? If only clay were not so cold. Or the warmth from holding a mug of hot tea lasted longer.
Maybe if I took my own clothes off too. He might be distracted from fumbling chilly fingers on his inner thighs and down behind his knees, my seeking nosy hands that so delight in finding out what makes this man tick. I might place his hands in the mud too, then let him touch himself to see how well I've translated him.
We could both be blindfolded, and then neither would ever quite know the moment of impact of cold snaking finger on naked skin, both continually suspended in an agony of anticipation.
I'd like to work with him standing, me working my way up from bony ankles, those delicate cords reaching to the toes, up muscle-y calves, the hard almost-sharp shin bones, knob of knees with their mysterious moving plates and cartilagenous clicks and pops, the softer widening out of thighs, flare of hip, bones like clenched fists turning this way and that, and then another break. To rinse my hands in hot water before reaching around to grip a handful of each buttock, hear his yelp. Surprise at the little stabs of fingernail into flesh, then a quick upward slide along his spine and then hands off while I go over to the hotplate and turn off the heat.
Later on after tea, after a sandwich or peach, maybe some tangy cheddar, washed down with more hot tea, we go back into the dark again. The clay a lifeless pile on the platform. My hands warm from the mug, from running them over naked flesh, I get down on the floor in a half squat for one more exploration before getting on with the work of shaping clay and making it stand on its own.
I take his hand and lead him to the table, where he stands with arms outstretched as if conducting a symphony or calming a crowd, or maybe just hanging at his sides. I've left the light off as we are both in hoods, neither one quite knowing what will happen next. I plunge hands into a bucket of rinsewater and run them down the clay pile, punching in, squeezing hard in places, mud splattering and running down my arms, the sounds in the room more noticeable now. The water slosh and little sighs, knock of ancient radiator, board creak, wind outside the tall windows, a slap against flank sound that reminds me of horses.
My fingers quickly stiffen till I can hardly work the cold mass, and I ache to touch warm flesh again. It's all I want at this moment, in the darkness, where I'm poised between the thing I make and the heat of human contact. I reach toward the comfort of his body, at the same time itching to take my own life in my hands. To make a living work of art, a thing of beauty bigger than myself, something I can leave behind in the room, that I created out of thousands of afternoons and evenings of agonizing laboring in the dark, of never quite knowing what will come of it, if anyone else will ever see what I see in the dark.
posted by YourFireAnt at 1:53 PM
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