Light, Movement, and the Story in a Statue (Creative Writing Assignment #17)

Pauline Bonaparte reclines on her mattress, a cloth is loosely wrapped about her waist. In one hand she delicately holds an apple, suspended in front of her shapely thighs. Her other hand rests in her hair. This arm does not show enough strain to be truly holding her head; it is merely a pose. Her face supports this sense of confidence. Her eyes wander off beyond us. She feigns disinterested in her observers. But the viewer knows that vainly she wishes for them to look upon her exposed form. However, in the morning light the sculpture is bare, there is an overabundance of smooth marble. Her form lacks the shadows and crevices that animate other sculptures. One wanders on in the museum, craving the energy of something different. The story here is too simple. One almost feels sorry for this sculpture that seems proud without reason. How would a mere candle change the work?

In the light of the candle that sits before her stomach, Pauline’s form takes on new shapes. Shadows intensify the voluptuousness of her supple breasts. The apple gleams, the candlelight being intensified into a single point that draws us toward the bed. She is now a temptation. Looking at her body one notices how the light has accentuated the wrinkles on the mattress caused by her fleshy, corporeal body. But it is when one returns to Pauline’s face that the story begins. The viewer realizes that they are watching Pauline as she waits for Camillo. She plays with her apple idly, dipping it toward the open flame. Gazing beyond us out the cracked door she listens for the sounds of foots on the steps. She does not look toward the viewer, but it is no longer out of pride. She has forgotten that she is being watched. This has become a private view in an intimate night setting. The viewer has been transformed into the voyeur and is hidden in the darkness.

A breeze catches the flame, scattering the shadows on Pauline’s body and giving the illusion of motion. Has a door been opened somewhere? She appears to have shifted her weight in expectation, trying to catch the sound. Perhaps she has heard the clip of boots on marble or the echo of a servant’s voice, welcoming the returning master. The sculpture has grown in complexity. The viewer now must hesitate before moving on.

In another room, out of the candlelight stands Bernini’s David. The viewer approaches it from behind and immediately and without any change of light we are drawn into a story. This story begins, as many do, with a question. What is this figure doing? We see him bent over some task. The muscles of his back seem taut. His skeleton is visible, stretching the marble as if beneath it there were smooth titanium vertebrae and ribs. Splaying his legs we can tell that he is preparing himself for some change in momentum. A sudden action is imminent.

As the viewer walks around the statue clockwise the story progresses. The viewer sees that David holds some sort of stone with rope wrapped around it. As his left arm becomes visible, it reveals enlarged veins. The gleam of marble here becomes the gleam of perspiration. The profile of a rutty face appears, but this is no surprise for it seems an inevitable outgrowth of the tense, straining body. Armor and a harp have fallen to his feet. This must mark a final commitment to his present action. Now the viewer is determined to see what David has been preparing.

Finally the device’s purpose is revealed, it is a slingshot. With the observer’s final rotation, David’s body begins to shift its weight. He is in the act of winding the up for a triumphant fling. The climax arrives when the face becomes fully visible. Now David bites his lips with the strain of the slingshot. All energy is now directed into his arms. And then it ends. There is no conclusion.