The artist found himself in his studio, forming pale and rounded limbs out of white clay. He labored over slender hands long after the sun retired beneath the horizon. He filled scores of canvases with sea-blue eyes and smiling rosebud lips. The artist lost himself in the ecstasy of beauty, untainted and immortal beauty, the beauty of a single face filled with gentleness and compassion. Fine cheekbones in red clay, glazed in silver; glossy hair formed from brass wires and hints of lacquer; folds of rich navy and drapes of peach perfected with acrylics and oils on manifold canvases, toned calves and delicate ankles from white clay, flecked with gold—all these he manufactured, and all these he combined into a single woman. As the days—weeks, months, seasons—flew by, the artist discovered that there was indeed a woman on earth whom he loved.
But alas, reality intruded. The landlord soon came knocking on his door, demanding last month’s rent. The chilly white breath of winter rattled his thin windowpanes, and the cold from the outside penetrated through the canvases insulating his home. The single can of tomato soup in his empty pantry frowned at him, silently demanding companions. The artist soon rediscovered the bitter truth that the pleasure of beauty had helped him forget. He found himself at another art exhibition, this one more grandiose than all the others, held in a room suspended well above the city of steel. The artist stared in disdain and growing despair at the glistening ice sculptures and tables of expensive refreshments, waiters circulating with champagne glasses and rich men promenading with falsely beautiful women. He saw the garishly colored ribbons decorating the balconies and the ugly fluorescent lights illuminating the paintings. He flinched with every comment he overheard.
How beautifully sensual…the curve of her hips…I love her eyes, look at them…who do you think this is? Oh, it must be someone he knows quite well…she is quite lucky, then…or not,
I hear that artists actually live terrible lives…are they still living together?
So that’s why he’s always been so eager to leave—she’s waiting for him at home…
The artist, who had never believed in any power save for that of paint and canvas, found himself praying—perhaps to God, perhaps not. And as he prayed to whatever powers ruled the city of Manhattan and to whatever powers presided over art and beauty, he found that the light breeze intermittently blowing in from the balconies had grown into an insistent wind that tugged at his hair and pulled at his thoughts. His gaze was drawn to the balcony—and the darkness beyond.
God—or whoever had heard his prayers—had answered. There was indeed a place where he could find his beautiful woman, his love come to life. He ran towards the balcony, shoving people out of his path. Startled cries followed him. The artist reached the railings and was about to fling himself into the city below—
Someone hurtled into him from the side, tackling him and bearing them both down into the ground. The artist swore and wrestled with the creature between him and a world of beauty. The thing pinned him down on the ground with slender hands.
Sir! Sir! Stop! Calm down, okay? Look at me! Calm down! Look at me. Stop! Calm down; everything’s going to be okay…sir…look at me! Calm down!
The artist obeyed. He saw fine cheekbones and a swanlike neck sculpted in ivory, rosebud lips and crystalline blue eyes, curls of burnished brass and a dress of painted navy and peach. But those hands resting on his shoulder were warm and supple, like wax warmed on the fire, like…
Living flesh.
The artist looked at her, at her beautiful and worry-filled face, and he began to laugh. He laughed as he reached up and embraced her, and his joyful laugh rang through the air. He opened his eyes—truly opened his eyes—and his first sight of the world unhindered by disgust and antipathy was that of both his lover and the arched dome of the eternal sky.
*This modern myth is a retelling of the story of Pygmalion.