I wanted to read a poem called, "Snow on the Skylight All
Afternoon," which is the voice of a sculpture model.
So, if one of the choices is to be
translucent and stained, like stained glass,
I thought, well, maybe instead, marble.
But then, the sculpture of the model in the class
is not really marble.
So these are what she's thinking about.
And there's snow mounded on the skylight all afternoon.
So, you know, it's a cold place.
And there are little verbal diction cues that tell you
it was a while ago, too.
So these are her thoughts.
"Weight as marble.
That's how I picture, see, and feel myself.
It helps me to keep from jiggling.
Mirror's useful.
Looking in there, I say, ah, sculpture.
She's lovely.
Students crowded all round my platform.
Seldom look at them.
Just Ardenson, so I've heard him called.
I'd say he's talented.
Other than that, none of them seems
to grasp the point of art, not that I know what that is.
I notice everyone's hands, especially his.
They're slender.
Ring finger's on the long side.
Graceful, erotic.
Doesn't watch his piece as he shapes it.
Keeps his gaze on me.
I mean, on the model.
Lets both hands, and eyes too, move of their own accord,
true sign of an artist.
When he does that, does he imagine touching real girls?
Even me?
Or, uh, when he strokes inside her thigh-- oh god,
I just moved my knee at least half a foot,
which irritated him.
But it's hard not moving, harder than I thought it would be.
I'm pretty good at this.
I do understand he needs me perfectly still.
He's trying to get me beautiful.
How would I like to try it?
Like sculpting, I mean, myself?
Trouble is, there's only one other girl here.
Britta or Briget, something like that.
She's not at all my type.
Not friendly.
Not to me, that is.
Downright brassy toward them, even sasses the teachers.
Bobs her hair.
Well, in my opinion, no girl doesn't look better
with long hair.
You couldn't pay me.
I doubt they'd let me in, but still, I
have about half a mind to ask in the office.
Plaster casts, down there in the basement.
Other evening, slipped down there for a peek.
I even touched a torso, male.
Now, why don't these young men learn
to make me smooth as that?
I thought it would feel like talcum powder feels
when smooth on my body.
No, felt much, well, harder.
Cool, almost slick, I'd say.
Of course, Plaster of Paris isn't like wet clay.
I expect I'd hate the muck of actually being a sculptress.
But, after all, it washes off.
But I see that-- who's it?
Norwegian-sounding, Birta, I think it might be.
Watch her work.
She'll pause and squint at her figure, run her hands,
wet clay and all, back through her hair,
fingers spread out like men do.
Then it dries.
The clay gets all pale and stiff.
It stiffens something fierce in that short hair.
I think, scarecrow.
She even patches her old coat.
Well, Ardenson never looks her way that I've ever seen.
Hmm.
Start of halfway break, he picks up my wrap,
his shyness showing.
Drapes it over my shoulders, nods his head
as if saying words.
Hmm.
Think I'm due for a new kimono.
Paisley, maybe.
Purples and blues.
It's cold in here today.
Last pose of the class, thank goodness.
What do I want for supper?
Eggs, toast, cocoa.
Yesterday evening, went along the causeway,
then past the lion.
Caught a glimpse of Ardenson through the window,
draining his glass of wine, red wine.
And just as the rim of wine glass left his lips,
he happened to see me.
Looked straight at me.
His eyes so liquid, a glance, maybe three seconds.
It froze though."