Her head kept drooping to the side, kept craning to the left, the weight was evenly distributed, but there just wasn't enough support on that side of the neck to hold it steady. Globs of clay were added there, under the chin, and smoothed down with experienced hands. Those same hands dipped into a large bowl of water, then returned to the sculpture, softening the material to mold and smooth it easier. The sculpture was being done from memory, he hadn't seen a woman's figure like this in a long time, and he doubted that he would ever again. He was the artist giving life to imagination, bringing things from the idea clouds in his mind to the concrete certainty of the real world, and this was the body that he wanted to present as his next masterpiece. Unfortunately, as the clay resides in one's hands, it tends to show all of it's bumps and rough edges.
This was the reason that he, the artist, had spent so long trying to perfect her, the art. She always seemed perfect until he held her, his fingers tracing every wrong curve. Hours had passed, but he wasn’t aware, when an artist got lost in a piece time could move so fast. It was the same as being with a lover, the lovers make each other grow, time means nothing when with them, just as an artist and his work. Though, work was a negative thing to call it, that made it seem unenjoyable. While yes, it was laborious, it was a labor of love, a labor of self. It was more accurate to call it a piece. The art was a piece, a piece of his heart, a piece of his soul, a piece of him, and in it, he found pieces of himself. His fingerprints along her waist, the smooth curves of her bust were the softness of his skin, her marl caked onto his hands, all of these were of his own accord. She was art, and she made him an artist. She made him who he was.
She was beautiful, he knew because he could feel it. A warm feeling filled him, like apple pie recently from the oven, followed by the burn of spiced rum. His lungs were filled with calm, even breaths and he knew that he was close to where he wanted to be. Her head was stable, her shoulders sloped down in graceful sweeps down arms that were the same thickness on either side. They hung until a smooth bend at her elbow, where they both held out as if to cradle. Her palms were soft, and her fingers slender, arching upwards in subtle branches. Down from her shoulders, her back and sides bowed to the right to meet her hips which were rounded out in a pleasant way, larger than her shoulders, but aesthetically attractive. Her thighs followed suit, one forward, the other back as her knees took separate turns. Her left leg, the forward one, bent at the knee in such a way that flattened her calf against the back of her thigh. Her ankle on that foot was limp, it was all so unforced, her toes hung gently, each one matching the ones on the other foot. That foot touched the ground, flat and solidly, the knee on that leg was straight, but not locked. She held a full air of grace, one that would belong in a forest, surrounded by greens.
She was exactly how he felt, his emotions were poured into her, serene. Her face displayed that well. It was scarred, gnarled and contorted, her eyes showed this the most, it was as if all she had seen was destruction before this peace. The emotion displayed by grotesque features was what really mattered. She smiled in a motherly way, one of guidance. Her eyes, though scarred, were soft as they gazed. Eyebrows sloped gently above them in a calm expression. The piece was very personal, for he had seen the darkest of times in his life, but now, he felt as she was, calm and caring, protective almost, with her arms stretched to accept. He listened, and now all was well, tasted the sweet taste of victory in the success of his sculptures, his pieces.
After the storm, all the hurt and the fear, he had come to her, and now she was complete, as was he. Art had healed her artist, for he had created her. With his two hands, he molded her, gave her life to remind himself that he was alive. With his two hands, he cleaned his tools the sponges, knives, and scrapers that had aided him. With his two hands, he cleaned himself, washed the clay off of his fingers, palms, and arms. With those two hands, he did not need eyes. The paintings that had been his pieces when he could see, those dark, dreary things, hung upon the walls around him, he knew every detail about them, he remembered. They haunted him, but he could not see them now and that helped him think of them all the less. His sculptures were his pieces, the art that had saved him, bodies to create human life, trees to hang over and protect him from the glaring sun that he used to be blind to, he couldn’t see it now, but he felt it. He felt that warmth in all of himself, that brightness from the roots of his hair down to the pads of his toes. He could not see with his eyes, he was blinded, but that did not kill him as an artist. He could see with his mind, he was brilliant, with his fingers and heart, and being an artist gave him life.