An artist’s job is to answer a simple question, to look at a blank canvas, and simply ask ourselves,
“What shape will it take?” And then find it within our hearts to answer it. As I sit within this room in front of a block of blank and featureless marble, my soon-to-be magnum opus, I have to fight for the willpower to even tackle such a question. Especially since it is not for myself or my own fulfillment, but for someone else’s.
I must put much more thought into this question now than I ever had before. It has become more important to not upset the client. When an influential organization such as a Church commissions you to sculpt their God, there is no room for error. For if I were to provide anything less than satisfactory, I might be punished for my crimes. No, it must be perfect for everyone’s sake, for this will be the man they admire. So I must now ask myself a different question, a vastly more important and complicated question.
What does a God look like? He who represents everything good, all the love in the world, all the care, neverending and unyielding; what mere human shape does he occupy? An optimistic fool may like to think of him as a lavish, wealthy man, but that becomes a bit of an oxymoron. A loving billionaire? That's not a thing I know how to sculpt; sculpting is built in reality after all. And even if I attempted, the idea of glorifying and immortalizing a rich man makes my stomach twist. More sane individuals may like to think of him as a poor man, walking the streets searching for the love he preaches, and while this ismore realistic, I fear this would not be taken lightly. To create God into a bum, no matter the symbolism behind it, is sure to offend.
Symbolism is an artist’s most incredible tool. It can turn a clump of dirt into an expensive piece of art. And more importantly, it can turn any random bypasser into a deity. But now it'd be foolish to attempt such a thing. Symbolism belongs in museums and those with a sharp mind. This requires strict, straight-to-the-point literalism.
And so what do I do? My first step is to ask a different question. A question I can answer, not what does God look like to the common man, but rather a more simplified query. What does God look like to me? If I were to see anyone on this planet and be able to say.
Ah yes, this! This is love!
Who would that person resemble? Who would that person be, and how would the light from the sky reflect off their eyes onto their kingdom and how can I immortalize it in stone. It only takes me a few moments of deliberation before I realize how simple this question is. How the answer has been staring me down in the corner of my workroom, I shall sculpt the one who gives me love.
I must not think of a God who is free to give others love, no, for if that were the case, it'd be no God at all. Good citizens deserve praise, but that praise is easy to give. Love is harder to shed on poor artists sinning for every coin; love is a pain when the one you love has a hard time accepting it. A smile is hard to share if theone you smile at has their nose deep in clay and pays you no mind. Love is hard to give if the man you stare at is sculpting your likeness for a place he is not welcome, simply for financial gain.
No, a true God would still be able to give that person respect. To provide this annoying ass a genuine smile and to provide authentic companionship. A real God could love the citizen who has earned it in some unquantifiable points race, and a real God would love the man who scored in the negative.
And so I shall sculpt him—the only man to show me all of these things and more. The man I know to be God is the man I visit when I'm through with work. The man who visits me no matter my mood, who encourages me at my lowest. The individual in this very room is watching me as I have this realization and sketch a man; he is unaware that it is him. The man who, despite all of the hardships I've seen and issues I've collected, kisses me with no apprehension.
I will recreate the demigod wrapping his arms around me right now as I freeze up and feel myself begin to weep. I realize I have been in the presence of a deity this whole time, and my worship had been lacking, and yet here he still is. He’s leaving the room now to fetch some water upon noticing my tearful reaction. I watch as he makes a slight detour to fill a smaller dish with water to offer the cat on the street. A man with love to share with everyone no matter their nobility is what true godliness is.
And as hereturns and pulls his stool beside mine, he asks me what I am to create. I become hyper-aware of the pebbles the wooden legs grind against and the musty smell the rock in front of me makes as I debate my response. And then I realize I do not need to think about it. I toss down my sketchbook and smile, enveloping him in a hug. I laugh and exclaim,
“You! I shall sculpt you! You are everything and more that this stone will become; love incarnate! My dear, I shall sculpt you.”
And so I will. And the Church will rejoice as even the most spoiled brat among them can spot the truthfulness in his soft smile. I will carve out this marble to perfection and nothing less.
While that Church has offered me nothing but hatred and criticism, I will give them what they want. I will provide them with the opposite of who they are to stand as comparison permanently. They want a good man, and so they will get one. And he will live for eternity. Children will be taught of his holiness and caring nature, and even after I am long gone, those who come after me will see the man who saved me every Sunday.
They will see my God alone. And they will love him as he loved me.
“What shape will it take?” And then find it within our hearts to answer it. As I sit within this room in front of a block of blank and featureless marble, my soon-to-be magnum opus, I have to fight for the willpower to even tackle such a question. Especially since it is not for myself or my own fulfillment, but for someone else’s.
I must put much more thought into this question now than I ever had before. It has become more important to not upset the client. When an influential organization such as a Church commissions you to sculpt their God, there is no room for error. For if I were to provide anything less than satisfactory, I might be punished for my crimes. No, it must be perfect for everyone’s sake, for this will be the man they admire. So I must now ask myself a different question, a vastly more important and complicated question.
What does a God look like? He who represents everything good, all the love in the world, all the care, neverending and unyielding; what mere human shape does he occupy? An optimistic fool may like to think of him as a lavish, wealthy man, but that becomes a bit of an oxymoron. A loving billionaire? That's not a thing I know how to sculpt; sculpting is built in reality after all. And even if I attempted, the idea of glorifying and immortalizing a rich man makes my stomach twist. More sane individuals may like to think of him as a poor man, walking the streets searching for the love he preaches, and while this ismore realistic, I fear this would not be taken lightly. To create God into a bum, no matter the symbolism behind it, is sure to offend.
Symbolism is an artist’s most incredible tool. It can turn a clump of dirt into an expensive piece of art. And more importantly, it can turn any random bypasser into a deity. But now it'd be foolish to attempt such a thing. Symbolism belongs in museums and those with a sharp mind. This requires strict, straight-to-the-point literalism.
And so what do I do? My first step is to ask a different question. A question I can answer, not what does God look like to the common man, but rather a more simplified query. What does God look like to me? If I were to see anyone on this planet and be able to say.
Ah yes, this! This is love!
Who would that person resemble? Who would that person be, and how would the light from the sky reflect off their eyes onto their kingdom and how can I immortalize it in stone. It only takes me a few moments of deliberation before I realize how simple this question is. How the answer has been staring me down in the corner of my workroom, I shall sculpt the one who gives me love.
I must not think of a God who is free to give others love, no, for if that were the case, it'd be no God at all. Good citizens deserve praise, but that praise is easy to give. Love is harder to shed on poor artists sinning for every coin; love is a pain when the one you love has a hard time accepting it. A smile is hard to share if theone you smile at has their nose deep in clay and pays you no mind. Love is hard to give if the man you stare at is sculpting your likeness for a place he is not welcome, simply for financial gain.
No, a true God would still be able to give that person respect. To provide this annoying ass a genuine smile and to provide authentic companionship. A real God could love the citizen who has earned it in some unquantifiable points race, and a real God would love the man who scored in the negative.
And so I shall sculpt him—the only man to show me all of these things and more. The man I know to be God is the man I visit when I'm through with work. The man who visits me no matter my mood, who encourages me at my lowest. The individual in this very room is watching me as I have this realization and sketch a man; he is unaware that it is him. The man who, despite all of the hardships I've seen and issues I've collected, kisses me with no apprehension.
I will recreate the demigod wrapping his arms around me right now as I freeze up and feel myself begin to weep. I realize I have been in the presence of a deity this whole time, and my worship had been lacking, and yet here he still is. He’s leaving the room now to fetch some water upon noticing my tearful reaction. I watch as he makes a slight detour to fill a smaller dish with water to offer the cat on the street. A man with love to share with everyone no matter their nobility is what true godliness is.
And as hereturns and pulls his stool beside mine, he asks me what I am to create. I become hyper-aware of the pebbles the wooden legs grind against and the musty smell the rock in front of me makes as I debate my response. And then I realize I do not need to think about it. I toss down my sketchbook and smile, enveloping him in a hug. I laugh and exclaim,
“You! I shall sculpt you! You are everything and more that this stone will become; love incarnate! My dear, I shall sculpt you.”
And so I will. And the Church will rejoice as even the most spoiled brat among them can spot the truthfulness in his soft smile. I will carve out this marble to perfection and nothing less.
While that Church has offered me nothing but hatred and criticism, I will give them what they want. I will provide them with the opposite of who they are to stand as comparison permanently. They want a good man, and so they will get one. And he will live for eternity. Children will be taught of his holiness and caring nature, and even after I am long gone, those who come after me will see the man who saved me every Sunday.
They will see my God alone. And they will love him as he loved me.
Support Kacie Fuller
