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[augielicious]

The Art of Breaking

Angie Bolton 4-16-06

An assembly of colorless clouds hung themselves above the city street, a colossal wad of stale cotton candy dangling from an invisible string. The air possessed a certain heaviness about that place, and as one drew nearer to the town square, the weight kept on expanding. Swarms of mosquitoes congregated and flew about the courtyard, spreading the muggy anticipation with them wherever they went. There didn’t seem to be anything there worth watching there, except for one little thought who kept racing about, tapping people on the shoulder and darting away again, always leaving a faint trail of hope to go along with the drone of the ringing cobblestones. The people who walked by there felt it, and they found themselves questioning whether it really could be true.

A statue stood in the corner of that courtyard, waiting, just as everyone else had been doing for some time. It too had been suffering in that one-dimensional picture of suffocating apathy. Actually, it wasn’t even a statue, yet. It was merely a solitary slab of gray stone, leaning against the wall. It stood amongst dozens of other finished works, all displaying their magnificence to any who ventured to pass by. To the right an image shaped in the likeness of a great king sitting upon his horse was on display, his sword raised in triumph and his chin lifted high with authority. On the other side of the rock, a beautiful figure of a woman holding her young son was framed against a canvas of sky blue. The waves of her hair fell past her waist and her stone eyes sparkled from the way the sun reflected off of them. One could almost hear the notes of a song drifting from her lips as she held her babe to her breast, beneath the folds of her robe. Throughout the entire courtyard there were intricately sculpted images such as these of men and beasts, guarding the gates and tending to the palace gardens. They welcomed all who entered that place with their inspiring forms and expressions, sending a few silent words out to every disposition.

Then, there was still that one uncarved stone, set apart from the rest, almost hidden in the throng of other creatures parading about the courtyard. This solitary rock had nothing special to offer, only a heap of stone and minerals with no apparent form or pattern. Would it ever be more than a mass of jutting curves and angles with long, spider-like cracks weaving in and out of its tarnished body? People would much rather please their eyes with the assortment of countless other images than sit and wait for this one piece of rock to suddenly change after years of doing nothing.

So it was, day after day. Crowds of tourists and government officials walking by rarely even graced that block of stone with a second glance, and if they did, it was only to scoff at its worthlessness. At times, people would criticize the man who had bought that stone, questioning why he had left it sitting there for so long. He should at least use it for something, they protested. Perhaps a simple decoration for the wall surrounding the palace, or a base for one of the other statues he was working on. The owner was a stubborn man, however. He had decided long ago when he had first found that stone that it would be used for something of the utmost importance. It had been overlooked many other times by those who could only take notice of its very evident flaws. He, on the other hand, saw the perfection that it held beneath the surface. It was a pure rock, oddly shaped, but full of endless potential. It was beautiful, in his eyes. The only problem was that he would never trust himself to work with such a delicate piece, for fear that he would make one mistake and ruin any chance of ever making it into something significant. Only the most experienced, skilled craftsman in all the land would be permitted to cut his tool into that stone. And so, the man began a search which lasted many years, seeking out the one who would create this rock into a statue.

There were several times when the owner seriously considered abandoning his mission all together. The search seemed so fruitless, for in all these years he had never found even one person who could share with him his passion and vision. Perhaps his friends were right in telling him that he was foolish for expecting so much out of a malformed chunk of rock. Maybe it really was meant to be nothing more than a laughing stock. Broken, distorted, a joke. It would be easy enough to forget this dream and go onto to something else that would produce more results, something that people would line up for miles to see. But, regardless of how much he tried to convince himself, he could not muster up the resolve to let go. This was his calling. He had invested himself into it, and he was determined to follow wherever it was taking him.

At last the owner thought he had located the perfect candidate. The man, a sculptor by trade, created the most stunning, most elegant artwork he had ever set his eyes on. However, this man also dealt with a good deal of criticism from the public because he held such a strict policy of doing things his own way. The owner was able to overlook that detail then, in the glory of the moment. The man’s face was intent as the owner relayed his story to him, and a smile gradually crept from the corners of his eyes down to his lips. With a grin shyly enveloping his face, the man uttered in a few soft, broken words, “...This is something I have always wanted to do. To make something beautiful out of something that everybody else says is worthless. It will be the highlight of my career.” A single tear slid down his cheek as he whispered those words, and the owner was convinced that this was the ideal man for the job. There was, however, that one condition that the sculptor made very clear which had turned so many other away previously. The owner must never subject him to do things his own way, ever. He was allowed to offer suggestions on the ways he would like things done, but the sculptor would always have the final say. By hiring him for this job, he was forfeiting all of his rights as owner and becoming as one of the spectators. He would have no idea how the finished product would turn out, so he would have to learn to trust the sculptor’s word. The owner readily agreed to the terms, eager to begin his project after going through so many different avenues for so many years to find exactly what he was looking for.

The owner was delighted with the arrangements. Images of all the spectacular things that his less than average slab of stone could soon become filled his mind as he returned home. When people stopped to look at all of his statues, they would no longer critique him for buying that stone. It wouldn’t be long...they wouldn’t even remember what it had been before, for the brilliance and precision that it would soon possess would make up for any fault which had been so evident before; he was sure of it.

One morning, a few weeks later, a man walked through the gates of the courtyard, a chisel in one hand and a hammer in the other. A towel, already wet with the sweat from the man’s brow, was slung over his bare shoulder. He walked over to the corner of the wall and stood directly in front of that rectangular stone block, hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and nodded in satisfaction. He walked around the rock a few times, rubbing his hands along its bumpy surface, searching for any possible blemishes or weak spots. He seemed quite intrigued with the goods, for a few minutes later he was laying out sheets of white paper covered with extensive drawings. For the next several hours, he studied every detail, hunched over on the cobblestone courtyard, the midmorning sun burning freckles into his back and neck. The sun continued its’ steady climb across the sky, and the beads of sweat on the man’s neck grew as big as some of the stray pebbles about the courtyard, but still he worked. First, he analyzed every detail on his sketches, then he stood up, walked a few paces over to the stone and scrutinized every point, every angle. He repeated this process endlessly throughout the following days, scribbling notes, erasing certain parts and starting over again. And when the evening shadows fell across the courtyard, reminding him to wait for morning to come again, he would wish his stone goodnight, sliding his fingertips across its sides, gazing at its bleak exterior as thoughts of all the things it could become ravaged his mind. He seemed fascinated by something about that slab of rock, though no passerby would have been able to figure out what it was he had in mind.

Each day as the townspeople walked past the palace, they heard the steady sound of the sculptor’s chisel beating against the resistant rock. Periodically, the pounding would stop, and if someone were to peek over the top of the surrounding stone wall, they would have seen the sculptor, kneeling intently over a collection of drawings and notes strewn across ground. He was contemplating every word and line he had scribbled, and every corresponding spot on that piece of stone he was carving. The sculptor had spent almost every waking moment with that rock ever since he had arrived there, and he had come to know it better than anyone else. His vision for what it would become was even greater than what the owner himself had dreamed of. He could point out exactly where every flaw was, he knew where to feel for its weaknesses, and how to compensate for them with the rock’s stronger points. He saw what it was, but there was always that vision of what it would become drawing him on.

For the first few weeks or so, the owner was ecstatic. He had finally found the man who would carve his beloved rock into something astounding for the entire world to see. He counted every minute that barred the path in between him and that one day when his creation would be unveiled and his dream made whole. As the days wore on, however, he began to become increasingly restless. It bothered him that his voice had become so inferior and every time he offered any input it was thrown off to the sidelines as the sculptor diligently worked out his master plan. He did realize that the sculptor understood what he was doing much more he ever could. This man was the most skilled in all the land. Still, it irritated the owner more and more that he couldn’t be a part of the decision making. After all, wasn’t this his statue, and the sculptor just man he had chosen for the job?

Every evening after the sculptor had finished his day’s work, the owner would go out and examine the statue. Guided only by the light of the moon in that secluded corner of the courtyard, the owner could never quite make out what the statue was supposed to be, no matter how long or at what angle he looked at it. At times, it appeared to be some majestic form, its stone body dancing along to an unheard melody sung by the gods. Other times, the twisting, curving, indefinable shapes reflected nothing but confusion. In those moments, it almost seemed that the statue had hardly changed at all. The old, uneven edges still protruded at the most unfashionable angles and the many blemishes still stood out against the solid stone like a patch of dead grass in the middle of a manicured lawn. Regardless of how he tried to convince himself that he was missing something, that this really was beautiful, the owner could never comprehend all that the statue represented. It was as if a weight were constantly following the owner around, pushing him closer and closer to the ground. He knew what he must do now, but he was still fighting it. The nagging sentiment that the sculptor really must not know what he was doing wasn’t much of a help to the situation, either.

There came a day, as the mornings struggled under the weight of the sweaty molecules of heat upon its shoulders, when the owner finally decided that he wasn’t going to deal with this any longer. Purposefully defying the sculptor’s instructions, he marched out from his shady abode to where the man was perfecting the latest feature to his work of art. With his hands adamantly placed on his hips, the owner made sure his presence was known with a gruff cough. As soon as the sculptor looked up, his face slightly perplexed, but not at all surprised, the owner let loose all his complaints. He paced back in forth in front of the statue, he circled around it, eyeing every bit of the drawings and every possible mistake. The tendons in his hands tensed as he punched the air with his fists, demanding that his opinion be taken into account and that he be consulted before any further steps be made. He ranted on about his rights and ended with an unrelenting threat to release the sculptor from his work should he not comply with his terms.

Throughout the whole episode, the sculptor remained quiet and calm, his soft brown eyes taking in all the chastisements the owner was throwing at him. When he was at last given a chance to speak, the sculptor’s words were thoughtful, and simple. He patiently explained once again that in order to be able to achieve the highest standards in his work, he must be given complete freedom to do what he felt best. If the owner insisted on doing things his own way, there was nothing the sculptor could do to stop him. However, the final product would end up being tainted, missing an essential part of the artist’s handiwork. Without his originality, his signature etched into every fiber of that rock, it would be no different than any of the other statues out there. “Any artist could make this look beautiful”, he explained. “I want to make it so much more, to give it a name, and a purpose. But, you have to let me.”

The owner opened his mouth to protest once more, and then shut it. The sculptor’s humble words left no more room for bitterness or pride. He could offer his input and push his agenda, telling the sculptor how he wanted things to be done, but really, what did he know in comparison to this man? This man understood the potential behind this mere slab of stone better than he ever could. The owner would have to learn to trust him to make the best choices, even if he couldn’t understand why.

Silently, the owner walked away, leaving the sculptor once again to his work. In every step he took, he could feel that weight hovering above him, but it was lighter now. He sighed, a deep flush of air filling his lungs as he smiled at the sculptor, and he smiled back. There was a sort of freedom and peace in knowing that he could put this all in someone else’s hands. The weight had been lifted. He couldn’t hold onto to something anymore that he had already given away.

And so, the time continued to creep by. The sculptor labored every day, cutting, chiseling, tenderly shaping the stone into a statue. Although he and the owner now shared a better understanding of what they were going through, the breaking process was not nearly finished. Sometimes as the sculptor was working, it seemed as if the stone itself was crying out. As he hammered his chisel deeper into its body, it would quake beneath the unrelenting stare of the afternoon sun, pleading with him to take his hand away and ease its pain. He could feel the echoes of its groaning on his fingertips as piece by shattered piece of stone fell to the ground, exposing the statue to the open sky.

Witnessing the entire process from his perch in his window, the owner felt the same pangs of helplessness and anguish. With each strike of the hammer, his heart wrenched inside of him. He was trying to hold firm to the promise that everything would turn out alright in the end, but the sight of his most prized possession, his baby, being broken apart was proving stronger than his own will. The stains and blemishes which had become so familiar throughout the years were fading; he couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss running through his blood as deep sighs lifted his chest and dropped it back down again. Was this still his statue? It had changed so much.

Fighting angry tears of resentment, the owner looked out at what he believed to be his dream, crashing to the pavement. He gathered up his confidence to go and confront the sculptor once more, pushing away the reminders of what had happened the last time he had tried this. In one final, almost desperate appeal, he headed towards where the sculptor was getting ready to cut into another part of the statue. Hesitantly, the owner spoke up, though this time his words were hardly more than a mumble. He begged the sculptor to stop; it hurt too much to go any farther. He had thought that he could handle the pressure, but now this burden was crushing him. He couldn’t do this on his own. He had tried before, and failed.

Now, time and place were all melting into a blur of fear and regrets as he frantically searched for something to hold onto. He could feel another hand grasping his own as his knees sunk down amidst the piles of rubble. His head bowed to his chest, all he could see were cracked pebbles and charcoal dust, all pieces of what used to be. He saw his hopes, the deepest cries of his heart, in a scattered mess across the courtyard.

The sculptor had left his work as soon as he noticed the owner falling and knelt down next to him. He wrapped his powerful arms around the owner’s shaking form and carried him into the house and lovingly placed him on his bed. The sculptor left his work to keep watch over the owner, who was fighting a raging battle against his own flesh. During those perilous days and nights the sculptor’ eyes never strayed from the feeble form laying beside him. He nursed the owner’s wounded spirit till he was able to find his way back to that place where he had fallen, and rise above it.

It was during those days, when the owner was in his greatest time of weakness that he learned to lean on the sculptor to hold him up; he had no other choice if he wanted to regain his strength. He was learning how to walk all over again, but his gaze had a tendency to wander, causing his steps to falter. Every time he would have to make his way back into the steadfast hands of the sculptor, and together they would start over. It was a tedious process, and through it both the owner and the sculptor had given of themselves. Now they were working towards a dream.

Little by little, the routine began to be restored to what it had been before. The sculptor returned to his corner, plotting out every last detail of his design as precisely as his lead pencil would allow, then executing it to the smallest measurement known to civilization. The owner still wrestled with his lack of control in the matter, but, he was learning to entrust it to someone else whose hands were bigger than his. Whenever it appeared to him that his rock was still nothing more than a rock, he would remember the touch of the sculptor’s strong hand against his own weak body and the promise that one day, this would all be complete. When that day came, it would exceed even the most extravagant of his dreams.

At last, after what had felt like an endless cycle of tomorrows, the sculptor’s work was completed. When the sculptor led him out to see what he had been waiting for all this time, it took everything the owner could muster just to unbury his head from his hands. He was terrified that there would be something wrong; he couldn’t convince himself that it really could be perfect. There was sure to be one piece that had been cut too far or one minor detail overlooked. Could he have possibly expected too much out of this? As he lifted his head, it wasn’t failure that kept his words from coming out, but awe. Every thought of fear was chased from his mind as he viewed this finished masterpiece. This was the product of every tear-filled night and every drop of faith that he had emptied out through this purgatory. And it was beautiful. No, it was beyond that. It was so much more than his dreams had ever dared to ask for, and it was his.

As entranced as he was, there was something inside the owner that wouldn’t accept such an undeserved gift and revel in this moment alone, when someone else had put their whole being into its creation. Looking over his shoulder at the sculptor’s proud smile, the owner turned, took a few steps backwards and bowed to the ground. Clutching at the sculptor’s feet, dirtied with weeks worth of sweat and dust, the owner dared to gaze up at his face. He had been struck, rather suddenly, with the unworthiness of himself before this man. The sculptor had been the one who orchestrated every step that had made the statue what it was now. It had been his hands who had drawn, shaped and smoothed out its surface, his eyes that had kept watch over it day and night and his arms that had caught the owner when he had fallen. Without him, this would have been nothing.

And so, the owner humbly gave his statue back to the sculptor as an offering for all he had done. The sculptor, however, did a peculiar thing at that moment. He bent down next to the owner and put his arm around his shoulders, which were sagging with the burdens of his unworthiness. “We’ll share it.”, he whispered in his ear. Then, lifting the owner’s head to the level of his own, the sculptor helped him up, and together they stood there, watching their masterpiece.

In those few moments, another change took place. As his eyes refocused from the hole they had been boring into the sculptor’s feet, the owner was renewed. He began to see things that were never visible to him before. He saw beauty where there had only been excruciating pain, and perfection in the midst of madness. And, he was starting to see some reason in his sufferings.

In his lowest hours of distress, the owner hadn’t noticed the sculptor scooping up the many pieces of chipped rocks which had dropped to the ground. Their edges had been burnt from the fire used to mold the stone and they were now smeared with dirt and ashes. Lightly dusting them off, the sculptor had gathered these pebbles in his hands and placed them to the side before he turned to care for the owner. Now, as the owner stood off at a distance, those charred pieces of stone didn’t seem as precious to him as they had before. Rather, the points on the statue which had once been theirs to occupy were now transformed into some of the most breathtaking features of the entire structure. The once familiar jagged, rough edges were now shaped into smooth flowing arches across the statue‘s body, edifying its beauty even more. The owner could see now that the burning, chiseling and breaking were essential in order to create something so perfect.

Now when people visited the courtyard, they came only to see one statue in particular. The other statues were still admired, but there was one which always seemed to draw the masses closer and gather their wonder upon itself. Even though it was hidden in the corner by the curtain of other carvings, its splendor remained unparalleled. It had a way of illuminating everything that came into its path so that it was quite impossible not to notice it. The other statues, which had dominated the courtyard not so long ago, had been diminished to mere spectacles before this star.

It was raining now. The clouds unfurled, saturating the ground beneath them. Each drop washed over the stone, a refreshing, holy presence after the storm. And a statue stood in the corner of the courtyard, waiting. Who could have ever imagined?