Pygmalion Revisited

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ISBN 978-1-939275-59-2

DEDICATION

To those for whom love is an art and art is love.

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Preface

This preface about the myth may be critical to your understanding of the stories in the cycle of Pygmalion Revisited.

Each chapter is an independent short story with a common theme. The stories run between 4,000 and 20,000 words. They all revolve around the love between an artist and his or her artwork. Each is a romantic story that involves one or more sexual episode. In some, the sex is limited but very sensual.

Many authors have riffed on the story of Pygmalion. The most famous in the English language is probably George Bernard Shaw’s play Pygmalion on which the popular musical My Fair Lady was based. This is an example of the story with both a happy and a bittersweet ending. In Shaw’s version, Eliza Doolittle leaves Henry Higgins and makes her own way in society, marrying Freddy Sanford-Hill, and opening a flower shop. Shaw held that Galatea, the sculpture embodied in Eliza, could only be truly considered alive if she were independent of the sculptor, Henry. In the musical, she returns to Henry and fetches his slippers. Well, we all want a happy ending. Each means something a little different.

You should have a passing familiarity with the story of Pygmalion. Our most dependable source for the story is from an epic poem by Ovid, titled Metamorphoses, that recites most of Greek and Latin mythology in a single narrative. Frankly, making sense of Ovid’s poem might be challenging but I have included it below. To our contemporary ears, the language is certainly stilted at best.

The very short version:

Pygmalion is a sculptor on the island of Cyprus, probably sometime in the third or fourth century B.C. He has become disgusted with the behavior of the priestesses of Aphrodite (the Propoetides) who have turned their back on the goddess and have become common prostitutes, selling their bodies in the name of love. Pygmalion himself is devoted to the goddess and swears off all women and refuses to take a wife.

He carves a statue from ivory. This is an obvious problem with the Ovid rendition, for it is a life-size statue and I have difficulty imagining any animal that could yield an ivory tusk or tooth that size. It probably means a piece of ivory-colored marble of which we have many examples in Hellenic and pre-Hellenic sculpture—some of which the English actually left in Greece. The statue is so lifelike and so beautiful that Pygmalion begins to treat it as if it were real, dressing it, putting jewelry on it, and even kissing and fondling it. He creates a bed for it and a soft pillow for its head.

At the festival of Aphrodite, Pygmalion brings his sacrifice and prays that the goddess might bring him a wife who is “the living likeness of my ivory girl.” The sacrifice is accepted. When he gets back to his studio, he repeats his ritual of kissing and fondling his statue and discovers the lips warm and her breast pliable. She opens her eyes and he names her Galatea. They are married and have two children according to the story, the first ten months later. Aphrodite turns the unfaithful priestesses to stone.

And here is Ovid’s version:

The Transformations of the Propoetides

The blasphemous Propoetides deny’d

Worship of Venus, and her pow’r defy’d:

But soon that pow’r they felt, the first that sold

Their lewd embraces to the world for gold.

Unknowing how to blush, and shameless grown,

A small transition changes them to stone.

The Story of Pygmalion and the Statue

Pygmalion loathing their lascivious life,

Abhorr’d all womankind, but most a wife:

So single chose to live, and shunn’d to wed,

Well pleas’d to want a consort of his bed.

Yet fearing idleness, the nurse of ill,

In sculpture exercis’d his happy skill;

And carv’d in iv’ry such a maid, so fair,

As Nature could not with his art compare,

Were she to work; but in her own defence

Must take her pattern here, and copy hence.

Pleas’d with his idol, he commends, admires,

Adores; and last, the thing ador’d, desires.

A very virgin in her face was seen,

And had she mov’d, a living maid had been:

One wou’d have thought she cou’d have stirr’d, but strove

With modesty, and was asham’d to move.

Art hid with art, so well perform’d the cheat,

It caught the carver with his own deceit:

He knows ‘tis madness, yet he must adore,

And still the more he knows it, loves the more:

The flesh, or what so seems, he touches oft,

Which feels so smooth, that he believes it soft.

Fir’d with this thought, at once he strain’d the breast,

And on the lips a burning kiss impress’d.

‘Tis true, the harden’d breast resists the gripe,

And the cold lips return a kiss unripe:

But when, retiring back, he look’d again,

To think it iv’ry, was a thought too mean:

So wou’d believe she kiss’d, and courting more,

Again embrac’d her naked body o’er;

And straining hard the statue, was afraid

His hands had made a dint, and hurt his maid:

Explor’d her limb by limb, and fear’d to find

So rude a gripe had left a livid mark behind:

With flatt’ry now he seeks her mind to move,

And now with gifts (the pow’rful bribes of love),

He furnishes her closet first; and fills

The crowded shelves with rarities of shells;

Adds orient pearls, which from the conchs he drew,

And all the sparkling stones of various hue:

And parrots, imitating human tongue,

And singing-birds in silver cages hung:

And ev’ry fragrant flow’r, and od’rous green,

Were sorted well, with lumps of amber laid between:

Rich fashionable robes her person deck,

Pendants her ears, and pearls adorn her neck:

Her taper’d fingers too with rings are grac’d,

And an embroider’d zone surrounds her slender waste.

Thus like a queen array’d, so richly dress’d,

Beauteous she shew’d, but naked shew’d the best.

Then, from the floor, he rais’d a royal bed,

With cov’rings of Sydonian purple spread:

The solemn rites perform’d, he calls her bride,

With blandishments invites her to his side;

And as she were with vital sense possess’d,

Her head did on a plumy pillow rest.

The feast of Venus came, a solemn day,

To which the Cypriots due devotion pay;

With gilded horns the milk-white heifers led,

Slaughter’d before the sacred altars, bled.

Pygmalion off’ring, first approach’d the shrine,

And then with pray’rs implor’d the Pow’rs divine:

Almighty Gods, if all we mortals want,

If all we can require, be yours to grant;

Make this fair statue mine, he wou’d have said,

But chang’d his words for shame; and only pray’d,

Give me the likeness of my iv’ry maid.

The golden Goddess, present at the pray’r,

Well knew he meant th’ inanimated fair,

And gave the sign of granting his desire;

For thrice in chearful flames ascends the fire.

The youth, returning to his mistress, hies,

And impudent in hope, with ardent eyes,

And beating breast, by the dear statue lies.

He kisses her white lips, renews the bliss,

And looks, and thinks they redden at the kiss;

He thought them warm before: nor longer stays,

But next his hand on her hard bosom lays:

Hard as it was, beginning to relent,

It seem’d, the breast beneath his fingers bent;

He felt again, his fingers made a print;

‘Twas flesh, but flesh so firm, it rose against the dint:

The pleasing task he fails not to renew;

Soft, and more soft at ev’ry touch it grew;

Like pliant wax, when chasing hands reduce

The former mass to form, and frame for use.

He would believe, but yet is still in pain,

And tries his argument of sense again,

Presses the pulse, and feels the leaping vein.

Convinc’d, o’erjoy’d, his studied thanks, and praise,

To her, who made the miracle, he pays:

Then lips to lips he join’d; now freed from fear,

He found the savour of the kiss sincere:

At this the waken’d image op’d her eyes,

And view’d at once the light, and lover with surprize.

The Goddess, present at the match she made,

So bless’d the bed, such fruitfulness convey’d,

That ere ten months had sharpen’d either horn,

To crown their bliss, a lovely boy was born;

Paphos his name, who grown to manhood, wall’d

The city Paphos, from the founder call’d.

Pygmalion

What follows is my own romantic telling of the classical tale of “Pygmalion”, trying to stick as close to the original intent as possible. The story is set in ancient Cyprus and I have done my best to be true to the culture and the time, but I live now, not then, so I made no attempt to stylize the language. It’s contemporary.

I’ve used a few Greek terms that I’ve tried to make sure are adequately explained in the context. I should also note that the names of the tools the sculptor uses are Italian. Live with it. I couldn’t find Greek equivalents of the Italian names used today.

So here goes. Enjoy!

Pygmalion

“Excuse me Miss,” Pygmalion said shyly. “Could you… Would you mind… I mean…”

“Aren’t you a cutie, all tongue-tied?” The young woman answered. “What is it you want, handsome? Just say it. Anything you want.”

“I was wondering if you would stand just a little more to the left so the light hits you better.”

“Stand? You mean here? Like this?” She moved slightly and he nodded.

“Lift your head just a little.” She did. Pygmalion quickly bent to his tablet and began scratching on it with charcoal. She was so beautiful. He worked quickly but carefully.

Seeing what he was doing, the young woman smiled. She canted her hips a little and thrust out her bosom. Then she took deep rhythmic breaths, lifting her breasts with each inhale and letting them fall as she exhaled. Pygmalion looked up at her and noticed her loose tunic gapped open slightly and from this angle he could see just a hint of color crowning the proud mound of her breast. He tore his eyes away from the sight and continued to draw. So smooth. So perfect. So inviting. In his drawing, he let the tunic fall open enough to see the aroused nipple as if showing through the thin fabric. Her bearing was regal. Her throat was long and exposed from her chin to the cleft between her breasts—thin and elegant. Her hair was caught back in ringlets, each tied to the one before it. Her arms were bare, the flawless skin exposed to the shoulder. Below her thin waist, her hips flared. He trailed his eyes downward where she had subtly gathered her skirt in her hand to show her shapely leg. His eye involuntarily rose to her breast again. He was sure it was more fully exposed than it had been just a moment before. He glanced nervously around the agora, but no one seemed to notice him or the young woman brazenly showing herself to him on the temple steps. He used his thumb to blend the tones of her flesh as the perfectly shaped breast met her ribcage. He could almost feel her skin beneath his fingers. So sensuous.

“Are you finished yet?” Pygmalion realized he had stopped drawing, his thumb still caressing her nipple, barely touching the charcoal on the tablet.

“Yes. Thank you very much. Very much.”

“That will be a silver penny.”

“What?”

“For standing here in the heat posing while you drew. You need to tip me.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Pygmalion fumbled in his purse, moving aside several pieces of charcoal in order to reach the coin. “Are you a professional?”

“Not full time. I have other duties, but men pay better.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Wait. What’s your rush? Let me see the drawing.”

“Um, okay.” He held the tablet toward her, but she pushed him gently to the step and sat on his lap before pulling his hand around her to look at the drawing.

“Hmm. Not very good, are you?”

“What? It’s a quick sketch. And besides, charcoal isn’t truly my medium. Marble is. I just need reference material.”

“Oh? You intend to carve my boob in stone? You seem to really like it.”

“What?”

“Well, look how well-developed my boob is compared to my face. Just the hint of an eyebrow and a line for the lips. But the texture and shading of my boob is exquisite. Look.” She held her tunic open just far enough that he could easily see down her front and her entire left breast. “See? It’s so real and lifelike that you could almost reach out and touch it.” He no longer knew if she was referring to the picture or to herself. His heart was beating more rapidly as he felt his manhood become turgid beneath her. “Would you like to?”

“Like to?”

“Like to reach out and touch it? Caress my skin. Feel how hard my nipple becomes beneath your hand?” She squirmed in his lap a little, bringing his penis to a full erection. “You must have a lot of stress in your job—trying to make sure it’s all perfect, not daring to chip away the wrong thing. I could help you… uh, unblock your muse. Get your… creative juices flowing, so to speak. We could go just inside and find a private space where you could explore my various aspects to your heart’s content. I’ll teach you what a real woman feels like. You can even draw me again if you must. Let the function of clothing truly follow my form.”

“I don’t… where?”

“Just in the temple there.”

“In the temple? What are you?”

“I’m a priestess. But what can I say? What does any man want from the goddess but to get laid? I’m in the business of answering prayers. For a modest fee, of course. Two silver for the room and a gold for me. Come and let me make you come.” She reached between them to stroke his cock.

“I… but… that’s prostitution! You are a priestess of the goddess.”

“So, you think I should give it up for free? The goddess is a myth. I am real and I’m available.”

“No! No. I am sorry.” Pygmalion tried twice to stand before dislodging the prostitute priestess. She stood and straightened her robes.

“Sure? I promise I’ll make it worth your time. That sudden release of inspiration would do you good,” she said, reaching for him again.

“That’s… it’s an abomination! How could you sell your body in the name of the goddess?”

“All the priestesses do it. It’s how the temple stays open, how we pay for our shelter and food.”

He looked into her kohl-rimmed eyes, seeing past her friendliness and nearly retching at what he saw. So cleverly concealed behind a pleasing body and face, she was hard, mercenary, her intent on his purse rather than on him. There was no goddess here. No love. Nothing but a business transaction. He looked again at his drawing and then threw it at her feet as he ran from the public plaza.

Pygmalion was sick. Throwing-up-in-the-alley-like-an-all-night-drunk sick. And he’d had no wine. The day had started well. He took his tablet to the market square in front of the temple to look at people and draw. A concept had vaguely begun to take shape in his mind for a wonderful new sculpture for the prince’s vestibule in praise of Aphrodite, but he needed to look at people more closely—how they stood when they spoke to each other, how they stood or sat when they thought no one was watching. Then she appeared on the temple steps and it was magnificent. He wanted to capture the sun shining through the fabric of her skirts, showing the shape of her legs. How could he capture that in marble?

But she was a prostitute. That in itself didn’t bother him. Many women were prostitutes and, though some were worn and weary, many were happy enough. It was better than starving, one older woman told him.

But she was a priestess of Aphrodite! The Propoetides were sacred to Aphrodite. No man would dare touch them inappropriately. And worse, she had called blessed Aphrodite a myth—set herself up to be able to answer prayers. Offered her body as a substitute for faith.

Pygmalion threw up again.

I will never look upon a woman again! They are a disgrace to the goddess.

“So you will tar all women with the disgrace of the Propoetides?” a voice said nearby.

What? Did I say that aloud?

Pygmalion looked around and saw an old man sitting on a step at the end of the alley. Both hands were on the knob of a crooked cane and his white beard nearly touched his lap. Yet his piercing blue eyes were clear and Pygmalion felt nailed to the spot beneath their gaze.

“I beg your pardon, sir? Did you speak to me?”

“Yes. You say women are a disgrace to the goddess. Are you ready to paint them all the same? Or should I say, ‘Cut them from the same block of marble’?”

“How could one trust a woman once the Propoetides have forsaken the goddess and turned to prostitution? They are her own! They walk with the goddess each day and yet they call her a myth.”

“Well, you don’t have to trust them to enjoy them. Personally, I thank the goddess for every young woman who deigns to smile upon me. Anything else she does is worthy of making an offering.”

“And so, you would defile a priestess, old man?”

“The priestess herself may be an answer to prayer. But you are an artist. What natural form is more perfect than the shape of a woman? When the white marble comes down from the mountains and you stand looking at those shapeless blocks, what do you first see? The very color and texture of the stone cry out, ‘Here is a woman!’ When you touch her cold surface, you feel not the stone, but the perfect shape beneath it.”

“A woman carved of stone is pure and undefiled. A woman in the flesh is… I have no words. I must go home.”

“Feeling better now? Nothing to settle your stomach like the thought of cold hard marble.”

Pygmalion turned to snap at the old man, but no one was there.

The shape was perfect and Pygmalion switched from the gradina chisel to the scalpello. He worked steadily, the rhythm of his mallet on the chisel even and sure. This block was not large because Pygmalion did not want to waste material on his great experiment. He would be laughed at, surely, but it was a perfect form. Even the streak of blue that cut through the almost pristine cream-colored marble made a statement. Perfection was flawed. There was nothing perfect in the world.

For days, he worked in his studio, keeping the work hidden from prying eyes. The second piece of the sculpture had to be even more exactingly carved. It must match as a perfect inverse of the first. They had to fit together without a hair’s breadth between them. It would be dramatic then when the first piece began to float and then to spin.

“I must have the exact weight of the bala,” Demetrius complained. “And I need to know when I can work on the lekani to plumb it. Why did you make it so big?”

“Big? I thought it was small. No one will see it or understand unless they are standing right next to it. It is scarcely a sculpture to decorate the agora with,” Pygmalion argued.

“But for the entryway of the palati?”

“Yes. If our patron is pleased, it will reside in the center of the prothalamos. But who will see it there? It is not as if most people walk in the front door of the Prince’s home.”

“No. Only rich people who can afford to commission a sculpture from you.” They laughed and then set about the serious work of weighing and measuring the sculpture. Demetrius had devised a piston driven pump that would create the right amount of water pressure and began the task of plumbing the basin. Pygmalion stroked the sculpture with his hands searching for any imperfection in the surface.

Cold hard stone. How wrong the old man was. The stone was pliable beneath the touch of his chisel and rasp. He could feel the heartbeat within it and the warmth of its life.

“I am ready,” Agathos declared. “Let us see this new creation.”

Pygmalion stepped forward and released a cord that held the drape in front of his sculpture. There was silence as the small crowd looked first at the sculpture and then at their prince. The prince approached the ball sitting in a basin on a pedestal. He walked around it. He stood back and studied it. Finally, he spoke.

“Where are her boobs?”

There was shocked silence before the prince broke into laughter.

“Who was the model?” laughed his wife. “My shape is certainly nothing like that.”

“Not at all!” the prince declared, hefting his wife’s bosom before the people gathered.

“My Lord,” Pygmalion said. “If I may.” He felt the throb of the pump from beneath his feet and stretched a hand out to the sphere. They had tested it, of course, but that had been in the studio. If the pressure was too little, nothing would happen. Pygmalion touched the basin and felt moisture gathered around the edge. He touched the ball and gave it a gentle push. Had the ball been all white, no one would have noticed its movement. But the streak of blue that cut through the marble moved, rose and fell as the globe spun in its socket, lubricated by the water. There were noises of amazement and the prince fell back a step.

“Is this magic that the marble changes its stripe?” the prince asked.

“It may look magical,” Pygmalion answered, “but the ball is floating on water and is slowly rotating.”

“But how does if float? It is a stone. Stone’s sink.”

There was a brief argument and explanation and the prince was finally satisfied once he was taken to the cavern beneath the floor where Demetrius’ ingenious pump was working. At last, the prince, his wife, and his guests were satisfied and returned to the vestibule to stare at the slowly rotating ball of marble.

“You are a prince among sculptors, Pygmalion. You shall be richly rewarded… after I receive the sculptures that I want. I want beautiful women. A garden full of them. You got away with putting this… interesting form in my entry. Well, my guests will not expect that. But in my garden, I want women. Lovely, perfect, naked women. When you deliver them, you will have a kingdom of your own. Until then, nothing.”

“My Lord, Prince Agathos, I have foresworn women. I shall neither touch them nor carve them. I find women… disappointing.”

“Then you haven’t known the women I have known. But no matter what your preferences, I do not want a garden full of little boys.”

“No, my Lord. That is not what I mean.”

“It makes no difference to me. Little boys can be a comfort when a man is between women. But I will have a garden full of exquisite women carved in that ivory stone you like so much before you have a silver penny for your sculpture.”

Pygmalion wept.

He lay on his cot in the chamber next to his studio, head buried against his arms, and cried out to his goddess. It was not a cry of words but his heart rending in her presence. He had been so sure that the cleverness of his spherical sculpture would win the prince. The prince was pleased enough, but refused to pay unless Pygmalion forsook his vow and sculpted a woman. How could he do this?

“It might have been better if you’d floated a cube instead of a sphere.”

Pygmalion spun in his bed at the sound, sending tears flying. On the chair beside his bed sat a woman. No. So much more than a woman. A goddess. With that realization, Pygmalion rolled from his bed and prostrated himself on the floor.

“My Goddess,” he whispered.

“Rise, Pygmalion. You’ve pleased me.”

He looked up, startled. Pleased Aphrodite? When? How?

“Not like that!” the goddess laughed. “Yet. It pleases me that you see my priestesses for the whores they have become and that you have forsaken the company of women for my honor. You are true to me.”

“May I never forsake my vows to you, Precious Goddess.” He began to prostrate himself again, but a hand on his arm pulled him up. The goddess gently pushed him back to sit on his cot.

“Yes. I honor your devotion. But if your goddess asked you to do something, then that would not be against your vows since you have made your vow to your goddess, no?” Pygmalion tried to parse her words. His vow was to the goddess and therefore he would not be in violation of it if he were following her instructions.

“Can you possibly want me to fulfill the commission of the prince?” Pygmalion asked.

“I take vows quite seriously, Pygmalion. That is why I am upset over the same things that you are.”

“The Propoetides.”

“They vowed to serve me. Granted, I am a goddess of love and such service could include acts of love.”

“But it is not that they have sex with devotees,” Pygmalion rushed in. “I have been with a priestess,” he said, blushing. “But that was before. When I lay with her, I felt your presence and your blessing. Now… they don’t believe. They don’t even blush at their actions. I wish they were stone statues.”

Aphrodite stared at the sculptor, a smile slowly creeping across her lips. She forestalled his question.

“For now, we must get you working on Agathos’ commission.”

“But I cannot sculpt a woman.”

“Look at me, Pygmalion.” As he looked at her, the goddess stood and let her robes fall to the ground. Pygmalion’s mouth opened and his hands clasped over his lap so the goddess would not be offended by his manly response. His eyes fell first to her bosom and involuntarily trailed down to her sex before he tore them away to look at her eyes. “It is acceptable, Pygmalion. If I did not want you to look, I would not have commanded it. Look. Look at all of me.” As she spoke, she slowly turned so Pygmalion could see the proud thrust of her breasts in profile and then the fullness of her bottom, round and sensuous. He could see her cleft as she continued to turn toward him and could almost catch her scent. “Am I beautiful, Pygmalion?”

Pygmalion knew that his goddess, for all her good traits, was vain. It had been shown many times before. He would be a fool to say anything but yes, but even if it was not for the fear of her wrath, what he saw filled him with such intense desire that he could not have answered otherwise.

“The judgment of Paris stands, my Goddess,” he breathed. “Please let me bow and worship you.”

“Well, that didn’t work out so well. But Paris and Helen are centuries turned to dust. Let us see if we can do better by you.” She held out her hand to Pygmalion and he touched her for the first time. “Come to me, Pygmalion. The worship I crave cannot be done when you are bowed.” He stood before his goddess and realized that she was not quite as tall as he thought. She lifted her lips to him and he kissed her.

His heart stopped. He kissed the goddess Aphrodite—Astarte of old—the goddess of the spring ritual—the goddess of love, beauty, pleasure, and… procreation. He kissed her and surely now he must die. He was content.

“Are my lips soft, my artist? Do you feel the hardness of my nipples when I press against your chest? Do your hands find any flaw when they caress my skin, my back, my buttocks? Do not pass from me, my love. Touch me. Part the folds of my sex and feel the moisture. Place your lips on my nipple and suckle me like a newborn. Worship my body with your hands, your lips, your tongue, your cock. Enter me and know that I am your goddess and you are my love.”

Pygmalion’s heart restarted as his throbbing cock released his seed in the depths of the goddess and she moaned against his shoulder as they stood linked together.

“Now,” she whispered when their breathing slowed and they sat on his cot, still holding each other, “we must find a way to let you fulfill your commission without breaking your vow. You, my lover, my friend, my artist, will carve your statue—not of a woman, but of a goddess. I will model for you and you will release me from the stone.”

“Yes, my goddess,” he whispered. “I will do whatever you command.”

“That is what I love about you.”

“How many blocks of marble?” asked the astounded kyrios.

“His Highness’ command was ‘a garden full of naked women.’ You know the palace better than I. Exactly how many naked women does a ‘garden full’ comprise?” Pygmalion asked the chief of the prince’s staff as they walked between huge blocks of marble.

“Very well. Thirteen. Twelve for the garden and one to replace what you ruin.”

I will not ruin one.

“Humor him, my love.”

“Goddess?”

“Who are you talking to?” the kyrios demanded. Pygmalion looked around, but saw no one else near.

“He can neither hear nor see me,” a voice whispered in his ear. “I have reserved that for you.”

“I am honored.”

“Indeed, you are,” the major domo snorted. “He could have had Mathias sculpt his gallery. The cost would be much lower.”

“The cost would not be the only thing lower. Even his statues have warts.”

“So, he could just chisel them off. It’s only stone.”

“My dear Kyrios, I believe you have as low an opinion of art as I have of women.”

“Besides, Mathias only does busts,” the goddess laughed. “I think he was weaned too soon.” Pygmalion snorted and the chief of staff glared at him.

“Be that as it may, you can go and I’ll have the stone delivered to your studio.”

“Oh no. I shall choose each block. They must be perfect.”

“I chose the block for your vestibule sculpture and instead of following the prince’s instructions, you made a mechanical contraption.”

“Exactly. What would the prince think of the statue of a beautiful woman with a blue streak running across her breasts? I did the best thing possible with the travesty of material you supplied. This time I will choose my own stones and they will be the finest ivory white marble of Thassos.”

“You will make a white goddess that is flawless, my love,” whispered the goddess as she tugged his arm toward the blocks to be considered.

“Thassos! That is the most expensive…” the kyrios said to his back as the sculptor appeared to be dragged away. Shaking his head the kyrios found the stone master and instructed him to bill thirteen blocks of marble that Pygmalion would choose to the prince’s domicile.

Pygmalion walked up to the first block in the row of new deliveries from Greece. He laid his hands on the stone and thought. He couldn’t see the figure within. The goddess laughed.

“Not that one; it’s dead,” the goddess said. “How about this one?” she asked approaching a block some fifteen feet tall. Pygmalion watched as the goddess shed her clothes and walked into the stone, turning in various poses, making the stone transparent for Pygmalion to see what would result. “Does this marble make my ass look big?” Aphrodite asked. It made everything look big, but Pygmalion was not about to say that.

“I believe we want something that is life-size,” he said cautiously. “This block is fit for a temple, but not for a simple prince’s peristyle.”

“There is no block here large enough for a life-size statue of me,” the goddess said smugly. “I suppose, though that we need human life-size and not goddess-size. Let’s try this one.” She stepped out of the mammoth block and into a block that was nearer the size that would be needed. She controlled her size and posed in the block.

“That’s very nice. I like that one,” Pygmalion said as he approached the stone. He placed his hand on the surface, but could feel the shape of the goddess beneath his fingertips. He caressed her softly.

“If you continue that, we will attract a crowd as you hump a block of marble,” she whispered. It was obvious to Pygmalion that he was not the only one aroused. He backed away from the block and took the goddess’ hand as she stepped down.

Pygmalion noticed that she did not bother to clothe herself again as she moved from one stone block to another, posing and primping in each. In each block, Pygmalion could see a different pose. There would be no row of near-identical Korai standing at attention here. Each stone would be a unique woman in her own pose. None of the poses the goddess struck were exactly lewd, but she kept no secrets hidden. At last they had chosen twelve blocks that pleased them both.

“They are all wonderful and what minor flaws there are in the stone I can remove as I carve, but I know none of these are the sculpture you want me to carve. We are running out of choices,” Pygmalion whispered so no one would overhear him talking to a goddess whose nude body was wrapped around him but invisible to all others.

“Yes. Those are for the prince and his cronies to gawk at and fantasize about. They will be real enough that even his wife will be jealous of the attention he pays them. But now we need the one stone that will be ours and ours alone. It will be the stone from which you render your lover.”

“My goddess, you know that my simple skill will never capture your true beauty nor the depth of passion I feel for you. When I touch the cold surface, I can feel your presence, but no other would ever recognize you in the depths of stone.”

“You will create the perfect woman, my artist. When you touch her, you will feel me respond.” They were deep in the stone market when they came upon a block covered with canvas. Pygmalion pulled the cloth from the stone gently, as if taking the clothes from his lover. Beneath was the purest white marble he had ever seen.

“It is like ivory, it is so pure,” he breathed. The cover had kept dust from collecting in the cutting grooves. Even these showed no impurities. It was the finest block of marble he had ever seen.

“No. No. You may not have that!” exclaimed a man rushing down the narrow aisle of stones. “That block must be…” He stuttered to a halt before them and knelt before them, much to Pygmalion’s confusion. “My goddess,” the man uttered. He can see her?

“You are not the only true believer, Pygmalion. Thanos, you have done well and shall be richly rewarded,” Aphrodite said to the stone merchant. Pygmalion noticed that she was clothed again and that assuaged his momentary jealousy. “Please deliver this stone and the others Pygmalion has marked to his studio. And charge the prince double what he would normally pay,” the goddess said.

“My goddess, for you I would charge nothing. Yet I will do as you command.”

“You have always been a faithful servant. I will speak with you soon about more stone and where it will be delivered. I want to improve the temple at my birthplace.”

“Thank you, Goddess. Pygmalion, I am honored to provide this ivory marble to you. Cut well.”

Several days passed after the marble blocks had been delivered. They were scattered through the studio as though he would work on all of them at once. Yet, in the center sat the ivory marble the goddess had taken residence in. For hours, Pygmalion sat in front of the stone, beside the stone, behind the stone, holding the stone in his arms. Occasionally, he would reach for charcoal and sketch a line on its surface. Most of the time, he simply sat with his fingers moving softly against the stone’s surface.

“Are you teasing me, my love?” Aphrodite asked from the depths of the stone. “Time means nothing to me, but you should begin your work before you are too old to lift a hammer.” Pygmalion sighed.

“My goddess, fear stays my hand. You have asked me to create the perfect woman and have offered yourself as my model. What if my hand slips or my poor skill insults your deity? Perhaps I should practice on one of the lesser stones.”

“Pygmalion, are you committed to me?” she asked softly. He felt her hand caress his face.

“Yes, oh yes.”

“Then commit to the stone. Free me. Find me here in the depths of this perfect ivory and release me.”

Pygmalion picked up his scapezzatore and mazza. With a slow stroke he began the pitching. The first chips flew before him and soon he had picked up a rhythm. Occasionally, he set aside the chisel and mallet and sketched lines on the stone with his charcoal. Again, he picked up the tools and lost himself in the rhythms.

By the third day, he switched to the subbia, and began shaping the reclining goddess within. This process was much slower than the pitching. His mallet continued the constant rhythmic tapping, but much smaller pieces were removed with each tap. As the form emerged, Pygmalion spent more and more time touching the shape with his hands, listening to the soft moans of the goddess within as he touched her flesh of stone.

He began working with the unghietto, the little fingernail, as he smoothed the surface of her face and cut individual strands of hair on her head. The rasp shaped the contours of her face and nose. He changed to an emery stone as he smoothed her luscious, parted lips.

“How kind of you to shape my face first. I thought perhaps you would go directly for my boobs. Isn’t that what the little slut at the temple accused you of?” the stone whispered to him. He moistened a cloth and wiped the dust from her face and eyes, half-lidded with lust. He dampened her lips with the swab and then bent to softly kiss them. She sighed.

“I love your breasts, Goddess. I love the texture of your skin and the heat of your sex. But I would sacrifice all for the taste of your lips.”

“When you finish the carving, you will have them all.”

He petted her hair and looked at the position of her head. He jerked back.

“One moment, Goddess.” He ran from the studio to his apartment and snatched up a pillow. “Here. I did not mean to put you in a position where you would have to hold your head up while I work. This pillow will cushion you.”

“Pygmalion, I am made of stone. Is it not strong enough to hold my head in position?”

“Yes, Goddess, but humor me. I would not have you in discomfort because I did not think of a resting place for your head.”

“I love you, my artist. And I thank you for your concern. I feel that my time with you is fading, even as you progress on my sculpture. When it is finished, I will no longer be with you in this way. So, take your time. Even in a form such as this, your caress enflames my heart.”

Time and work progressed. As he worked, he talked to the goddess and told her his dreams. Had he not become disillusioned, he had hoped to marry one day and have children. He hoped even yet to please his patron and occasionally worried about the untouched blocks of marble that still awaited his chisel. Through all this, Aphrodite comforted him and filled his senses with her touch, even as he gently formed her shoulders and her bosom.

He began to shape a cloth draped across her for modesty but she stopped that thought at once.

“Do not cover me, lover,” she said. “No eyes will caress my shape but yours. Let me show myself fully to you.”

Fully, included carefully smoothing the tender rise of her breasts, the slight puffiness of her areolae with the nipples rising proudly from their centers. He kissed her lips as he caressed the supple breasts. He bent to suck her marble nipples. Though he knew they were just ivory stone, he could almost taste the mother’s milk that would fill them when she suckled a child.

Voices interrupted his revelry and he pulled a blanket over the sculpture so her nakedness could not be seen.

“Look. He is so modest he even covers the statue’s privates.”

“That is so we won’t see his semen covering her stony stomach,” laughed another.

“Dear Pygmalion, wouldn’t you rather a flesh-and-blood woman to sink your throbbing manhood into? I volunteer my flesh and blood—for a price,” coaxed a third.

The twelve chattering women filled his studio, some tugging at the blanket and some tugging at him. The daughters of Propoetus had come to mock him and tempt him from his well-known vow.

“You need to have a model, Pygmalion,” said one. She shed her tunic and pulled his hand to her breast. “How does this compare, artist? Squeeze. Does it not feel better than cold, hard stone?”

“Touch me,” said another of the suddenly naked women. She dragged his fingers through her slit. “I am wet and hot. Think how this would feel to your hard cock as I slid up and down on your rigid pole.” Pygmalion snatched his hands back and grabbed to prevent the blanket from being dislodged.

“Look sisters!” said one as she posed naked in front of a block of uncut stone. “I’m a statue. Perhaps if we model for him he will pay as much attention to us as he does to his imaginary friend there.” Each of the sisters posed in front of a block of white marble, heads thrown back as if I ecstasy, breasts cupped and offered to the viewer, legs parted as they reclined to take a lover. As he looked at them, he could see the stone take shape in his mind’s eye.

“Your hearts are already made of stone and your breasts colder than granite,” Pygmalion declared. “Go! Live your wanton lives while you still can. The goddess will visit her retribution on you. You will have eternity to rue your rejection of her.”

“You’ve been brainwashed,” the eldest said. “The goddess is a myth—no more a woman than the stone you shape with your hands.”

“Who could believe in a goddess born as a teenager, rising from the sea on a shell in all her naked beauty to seduce both gods and men?” The women had begun to close in a circle around him.

“It is a myth created by ugly men who would have the most beautiful woman married to the crippled and deformed Hephaestus. A fairy tale to dream on when he could simply pay a gold coin and have a true beauty take him between her thighs.”

“Even you, Pygmalion, hardened by the hammer and chisel, could be gentled within my sex.”

“Give up your vow, sculptor. Come to my bed and bring a gold coin for your pleasure.”

“Bring twelve gold coins and you shall have a night with each of us.”

“Go, I said! You are an abomination. There will be no hope for you when the goddess takes her revenge.”

The women laughed and abruptly turned to gather their clothes. They dressed sloppily and laughed as they filed out of the studio, helping each other tie their straps.

“I am so sorry, goddess,” Pygmalion wept as he cast himself on the marble form.

“Hush, my love. You still have company.”

Pygmalion turned to see the youngest of the Propoetides still in the studio leaning against and stroking one of the blocks of stone. He straightened himself and approached the young woman who had attempted to seduce him at the temple just months ago. She turned toward him.

“I can see myself,” she whispered. “I can see myself in the stone. Will you carve me, Pygmalion? Will you make me immortal?”

“Would you truly wish to share in your sisters’ fate? It is not too late, but the goddess will not wait forever.”

“You frighten me, Pygmalion. Everyone knows… My sisters taught me…” A tear trickled down her face. “I am what I am. How I wish I were a virgin again and could offer myself to you, new and pristine and filled with your faith. But I am what I am.”

“Sephane! Come! We have business at the temple waiting. Fun time is over,” called one of the sisters from outside. The priestess reached to Pygmalion’s cheek and touched him softly before she turned and ran from the studio.

“That was sad,” Aphrodite whispered in his ear. He was still standing by the stone, seeing the young priestess in it as she had herself. The goddess stood next to him, not encased in the statue he was carving.

“Can anything be done?” he asked.

“She is the only one that can save her,” the goddess answered. “Come, my love. We have little time left until your masterpiece is finished. Come make love to me and worship my body and spirit.” Instead of returning to the stone, the couple retired to Pygmalion’s apartment where the goddess of love showed him all her art and accepted his worship.

“You’re tickling,” the goddess giggled as Pygmalion ran the emery around her toes. “Does this mean that I am finished?” she asked sadly.

“Not quite, my love. I am going to bathe you.”

“Bathe me?”

“In pumice first. Then when I am satisfied that there is not a single blemish on your skin, I will polish you with tin oxide. By this time tomorrow you will positively glow.”

“And that will be just in time for me to make it to the temple for the festival. I am sad, lover, though I knew this would not last forever. You are, after all, mortal. It would be selfish of me to monopolize you. And there will be some who come with genuine sacrifices during the festival and I will honor them as I honor you. You have made me look more kindly upon men. Most believe they know best and ignore my urging.”

“You mean Adonis?”

“Tell a man not to do something and he immediately goes out and does it. That did it for fucking Ares, though. He is completely cut off.”

Before the final polish, Pygmalion brought a colorful blanket on which to lay the statue. He placed pearls around her neck and a new pillow beneath her head. As he worked the polish into her breasts he felt arousal take the goddess. He spent extra time polishing her nipples until they shone.

“I will miss you, Goddess,” he said as he moved down her stomach with the polish. The moisture he felt was not entirely that of the polish he applied.

“And I will miss you. Oh! That feels good. Polish that a little more and kiss me, love. Yes. Just a little more.”

Pygmalion felt her convulse in her climax, the moisture on his fingers pulsing. Then, slowly, the feeling of her presence in the statue dissipated and he knew she was gone. His tears fell upon the face of the stone goddess.

Pygmalion had prepared a surprise for his goddess. He had spent most of his meagre savings just days before to buy a yearling bull, as white as the ivory statue. Early in the morning he rose to collect his offering and gild its horns with gold paint. He placed flowers around its neck and led it to the birthplace of the goddess. He saw other devotees making pilgrimage along the road, but the two-day journey was not crowded. There was nothing on that western shore but the temple marking where the goddess rose from the sea.

On the morning of the festival, a tired old priest took the bull by the horns and led him to the altar. As the sacrificial blade fell against the throat of the beast, Pygmalion fell to his knees and praised his goddess, thanking her for all she had blessed him with. Then in supplication he prayed.

“Oh, Goddess Aphrodite, whom I love from the depths of my heart, hear this prayer from your servant. If I cannot be with you eternally, grant that one day I might find a wife who is the living likeness of my ivory girl. I have fallen in love with you, my goddess. Grant me, I pray, an outlet for that love.”

The priest fell back as fire consumed the bull in three hungry gulps. Amazed he looked at the sacrifice as it was accepted by the goddess. “Your prayer is granted, faithful servant,” he said in a voice that was not his own.

Pygmalion rose from the altar thanking the goddess and rushed back to Amathus.

Pygmalion arrived after a total of five days to and from the festival. When the first of the Propoetides fell in step beside him, he purposefully ignored her, but she said nothing. He was barely through the city gates when her sister joined them. And as he walked toward his studio, each of the daughters of Propoetus joined the procession. Pygmalion saw the youngest of the sisters waiting on the temple steps. She hesitated and then followed a few steps behind. Still the sisters said nothing so he continued to ignore them even though people had lined the streets as the procession progressed.

Pygmalion was too happy to be concerned. His goddess had granted his prayer. He did not know where, how, or when his wish would be granted, but he would have a wife approved of and given by the goddess. Nothing could diminish his joy.

The Propoetides followed him into his studio and silently ranged themselves around the room in front of the uncut blocks of marble. Pygmalion looked at them as they stood with a faraway look in their eyes. Almost by habit, he stopped in front of his ivory statue and bent to kiss her lips. He knew they would be cold, the goddess having left days ago. But to his shock, the lips softened and parted, accepting his questing tongue. He pulled back, suddenly conscious of the sisters encircling him. The eldest looked at him, her eyebrow raised in question. She turned and stepped into the stone. He watched her settle into her form, lift her eyes in wonder, and become the stone. The chips fell away and there was only the statue of the priestess.

He kissed the eyes of the ivory maiden and they fluttered open, looking at him with love and compassion. Nearby, the second sister dropped her robes and entered the stone, instantly locked into a pose of passion, embracing an unknown lover. Too excited to pay attention to the sisters, he stroked his statue’s hair and felt the silky strands beneath his fingers. The third sister entered a stone. He touched the cheeks and a blush arose there as the fourth sister became a statue. His lover’s throat swallowed as he caressed it with his lips and the fifth sister was absorbed into marble.

This progressed. He stroked the shoulders and arms of the statue and as they became flesh, the sixth sister became stone. He lovingly pressed the statue’s breasts beneath his hands, suckling on their nipples, and the seventh and eighth sisters entered their final resting place. The ninth and tenth sisters became stone as Pygmalion massaged the supple flesh of his statue’s legs. With a catch in his breath, Pygmalion stroked the statue’s sex and heard her gasp as her moisture dampened his fingers. The eleventh sister entered the stone and froze.

Pygmalion looked at the eleven statues and his eyes fell upon the twelfth sister, Sephane. She clutched a drawing to her breast as she looked at him and then at the marble before her. Pygmalion reached out his hand to his bride and she grasped it. Sephane flinched, let the drawing he had done of her flutter to the floor and stepped into the stone. Of all the statues of the Propoetides, only one had a blemish—a tear-streak down her cheek.

Pygmalion turned to the ivory white maiden holding his hand. He bowed and kissed her fingers, now warm flesh and not stone.

“I am Galatea,” she said.

“I am Pygmalion,” he answered.

“Oh, I know you. I have known you since the first day you caressed the ivory stone. I have kissed your lips as you lay with me. I have welcomed your love from the moment of my awakening.”

“But the goddess…”

“Was there with me, but I was there with her as well. I have looked into your soul, Pygmalion. I have listened to your dreams. I have felt your love. And now you have given me my freedom.”

Pygmalion was thrown by this statement. Given her freedom? Of course, she was locked in stone and he freed her from it. It would be wrong to claim her as his own. He slowly released her fingers and bowed deeply to her—not as he would prostrate to his goddess, but as he would respect a perfect woman.

“I hope that you will think kindly of me now that you are free and not be repulsed by my treatment of you when you were stone. If I may be of service to you, please call on me at any time.”

“Any time?” Pygmalion nodded. “Now?”

“Why of course. I’m so sorry. Here you are just awakened and have nothing! I’ve caused you to stand exposed to my eyes. Please forgive me. Whatever you need, if it is mine to give, it is yours.” He snatched up the blanket wrapped it around her shoulders, regretfully covering her perfect features.

“I suppose that if I’m to be a member of polite society, I will need clothes. But perhaps there is one thing that you will be unwilling to give me since I am nothing more than stone to you.”

“You are so much more than stone to me, fair Galatea. I could deny you nothing.”

“Then may I have your love, Pygmalion? I assure you that there is nothing of stone left in me. My heart beats with passion. Hot blood flows through my veins. And though my skin is ivory white, I feel a blush rising in my face when I think of what I want from you.”

“Galatea, you are truly the answer to my prayers. I will love you and honor you all our lives. I did not dare hope that you would feel that way for me.”

“My darling, I have lain on a bed of marble for weeks awaiting this moment. Please, show me what it is like to lie in your arms on your bed. I am free and I freely give myself to you. I am yours, my love.”

“Is it ready at last?” Agathos demanded of his kyrios.

“Pygmalion and his wife await you in the peristyle, My Lord.”

“A wife yet. And this is the man who swore he would touch no woman of woman born. She must be something else.”

“Your Grace, you might not want your wife to be there when you see her the first time.”

“You are right. I want this to be a private showing. I have twelve naked women waiting in my garden. Stay here. I’ll go on alone.”

The prince entered the central garden around which the rest of his palace was built. Two beautiful stone women graced the entrance to the garden. He stopped to look at them closely. That one looked familiar. He ran his hand up her leg and across her ass. Yes. Very familiar. He looked at the other and could not keep his hand from rising to her breast. Cold stone, but still silky and sensuous. Pygmalion had outdone himself. He worked his way into the garden crossing from one side to the other to touch and closely examine each stone woman. Exquisite. Simply exquisite. At last he made it to the farthest corner of the garden. There Pygmalion waited with the most delicious woman the prince had ever seen. Next to them was the most beautiful of the statues, yet she looked almost sad.

“Your Grace, please be careful with this one. She is fragile,” Pygmalion said.

“Yes, of course. They aren’t… playthings.” The prince tore his eyes from the beautiful woman next to the artist. He could almost sense relief in the garden. “You have done well, Pygmalion. I understand you have married.”

“Thank you, My Lord. This is my wife, Galatea.”

“Congratulations.” The prince was tongue-tied as he took the offered hand of the woman. He was very glad his wife was not present. “Ah, well,” he said, releasing her hand. It was obvious that it did not belong in his. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance. You are just what our fine artist needs for his next commission.”

“My Lord, we have not yet settled this one. I have delivered to you what you requested, have I not?”

“Yes, of course. I believe your next ‘commission’ will be the payment you seek. I understand you were recently at the birthplace temple.”

“Yes, My Lord,” Pygmalion said, remembering the message of the goddess and the acceptance of his sacrifice.

“The priest there has suddenly retired. He claims to have seen the goddess and instead of sitting in the temple he has gone into the countryside to evangelize the people. That leaves the temple untended. Really, we can’t have that. It is much too far away for me to reach with a protecting hand.”

“I had no idea,” Pygmalion said. He was appalled. A temple with no priest?

“The stone merchant, Thanos, has informed me that you are on very good terms with Aphrodite. He mentioned this upon presentation of an exorbitant bill for the stone he provided. Don’t worry, I’m pleased. These stones are magnificent. Almost real. Nonetheless, Thanos has said he is moving to Paphos and taking delivery there of his next shipment of stone. He has quite a following of people who have agreed to accompany him. In fact, it appears to be the founding of a small city-state. I have called you a prince among sculptors, and I promised you a kingdom of your own. That kingdom is the new city-state of Paphos. There you will become the new priest of Goddess Aphrodite and oversee the renovation of her temple. To amply reward you for your service, I will provide a small contingent and supplies for your fledgling theocracy for five years. By that time, you should have your city well under construction and the incoming citizens converted by your itinerant evangelist should make it a profitable adventure. In five years, I will journey to your new home and make sacrifice to our goddess. At that time, we will greet each other as equals.”

And thus it happened that Pygmalion and Galatea moved to the western edge of Cyprus to tend the holy shrine and establish the city-state as Aphrodite’s first priest-king. Ten months after her awakening, Galatea bore Pygmalion a son whom they named for his home, Paphos. It was he, a devoted priest-king after his father, who walled the city of Paphos. A year after his birth he was joined by a sister, Metharme, known as the most beautiful young woman on the island next to the ivory lady, her mother.

Pygmalion and Galatea lived to a ripe old age and Pygmalion carved a giant statue of Aphrodite that looked out over the sea and her birthplace. In their old age, Pygmalion still looked like a young man and Galatea looked as pure and perfect as the day she was created. They held each other in their arms, even on the day they died.

Lost Wax

In the last book of the Model Student Series, The Prodigal, I introduced an artist by name only who had cast a metal crucifix for the Jesuit chapel Tony and Kate were working on. Tony created frescoes and Kate mosaics. But the crucifix was deemed an equally incredible work of art.

Though we never meet Jerome in person, we are left with the impression that he is an unusual and somewhat reclusive student artist at the Pacific College of the Arts and Design. This is the story of Jerome Z.

Lost Wax

I’m Jerome. No last name. I don’t use it. I can’t even pronounce it; I can’t expect anyone else to. I’m an ethnic ‘Heinz 57 Varieties.’ Why the patrilineal line had to come from the only place in the world where you could have no vowels in a word is sheer bad luck. Imagine a name like Zgrdznk. No, that’s not my name. But if you saw it and asked how it was pronounced, I’d just say “Smith. The ‘Z’ is silent.” I got sick of it. When I turned eighteen, I found a judge who could sympathize but he insisted that I at least use the last initial. “Jerome Z,” he said. “But you can still tell everyone that the Z is silent,” he repeated my joke and smiled. I accepted that.

I started here at PCAD—that’s the Pacific College of the Arts and Design—three years ago. Of course, now we’re a part of Seattle Cascades University and I’ve just had my cast aluminum crucifix installed in the new Church of St. Jerome. I really don’t care what school my degree comes from as long as I have opportunities like that. I came here for one reason only. I promised my mother that I’d get three new letters after my name. Next year I’ll be Jerome Z, BFA. I chose PCAD because they only have twelve credit hours of general education credits required. Everything else is in my field.

Oh yes, my field is 3-D Visual Art. My medium is anything I can afford, but I pretty much prefer bronze or other cast metals. Anything durable enough to last a few centuries also happens to be weighed by the ton. I like marble, but talk about hard to move! I don’t care for wood-carving. I don’t feel like fired clay is permanent. I sculpt for eternity. I don’t want to think of someone dropping a plaster bust and saying, “Oops.” My sculpture will crack the floor if you drop it. If you can pick it up.

My story really starts a couple of years ago. I’d come to PCAD because they offered me a special grant to pay for materials. Marble block costs anywhere from $500 to $2,000 a cubic meter. Bronze only costs $10-$20 per pound, but you have to pay a foundry to cast it after you provide the wax mold. At PCAD, we can cast small items, hardly more than jewelry. There’s an industrial foundry in SODO that will cast for a pretty reasonable rate. If you really want art quality casting, though, you have to go up to Bellingham where there’s an art foundry. I guess the sum total is that whatever the medium, it’s time-consuming and costly. And durable. That’s why I’m a sculptor.

“What good would a bunch of letters after my name be? Do you intend to get a PhD in sculpture?” Ms. Brock asked me pointedly. Bitch.

“I don’t need letters. I’m an artist.”

“Oh? And why do you think I need those letters?”

“You’re a teacher.”

“Ah. I see. Artists don’t teach.”

“Why would they?”

“Some of the most famous artists in the world also taught. In many instances, they referred to it as taking an apprentice. Sadly, they don’t offer letters for apprentices, so you wouldn’t get your BFA. And your master wouldn’t release you for at least ten years. You plan to be out of here in four.”

“That’s what college is for.”

“Exactly. College is for getting letters after your name. It has nothing to do with whether you are an artist. You’ll come out of here knowing less than any apprentice who managed to get journeyman status and thinking you know it all.”

“I promised my mother I’d get the degree. I don’t need it to be an artist.”

“And you expect to learn your craft—no, I’m not talking about the art—to learn the craft, the tools, the materials, and the techniques from books? From someone with letters after their name? In my class, you are the apprentice. Even if eventually you prove to have more artistic talent than me, you will learn the craft from me. Until you show yourself to be enough superior to me to teach this class, you will continue to be my apprentice—even after you graduate. Letters after your name be damned. This is the assignment for this class.”

“But I want to cast something larger. I have a wax model almost finished.”

“Do it on your own time and pay for it yourself. You have not shown me that you deserve to be trusted with more than half a pound of bronze. Our maximum capacity in the studio is one pound. For more you would have to take your work to Bellingham. The piece you propose is too big. Fulfill the assignment or fail the course.” Ms. Brock pointed empirically at the door and I left.

Well, that went well. How was I going to cast anything out of bronze that weighed half a pound? This was stupid. Last term they gave me a six-inch block of marble to carve. How can you do anything remotely human in 216 cubic inches? Now if they’d given me a slab fifteen inches square and an inch deep, I could have done a relief. Most people did an abstract to show that they could polish a stone in a fairly consistent shape. I chipped away more stone than the others and by positioning the block on an axis that was diagonal through two corners, I managed a respectable if somewhat stylized human figure. Marble wasn’t made to do miniatures—at least not with a chisel. I could have used a Dremel with a grinding wheel and put the detail in that I wanted. I’ll probably do that later, just to finish the damned piece.

That was a preview of Pygmalion Revisited. To read the rest purchase the book.

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