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The Artist

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Summer
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Note: I am not posting this for tips in terms of my writing style.

Thank you.

The Artist

By Summer Hamori

His jaw line was sharp and hardened with maturity over the years of his intellectual growth. It was miraculous to witness the visible evolution in aesthetics subsequent to a change in philosophy. His corrected posture, posed and confident, made an infinite difference.

His eyes, a blend of hazel that looked green from a distance, were saturated with sentiment. And yet, if she were to say this aloud, it could not be understood. Laughter would ensue – “what’s the punch-line?” because his face knew no sadness. No drama and no depression. The guilt-inducing emotions were non-existent. However, he could be moved by aggression and passion. He could be brought to his knees by his temple of reverence, of awe, of ownership – of the deserved and won.

His hair was like fire: thick and violently red. Of all his features, he loved his hands the most. Today, those hands had been put to work – shaping and breaking the clay against his palms. He concentrated on the feel upon creased skin to distract himself from the moments ahead. His angular shoulders shifted with precision and expertise, and the vision was more glorious than any angelic depiction.

The woman would never bow her head in church, would never kneel before an altar, but with him, she felt a profound sense of religious adulation – of salvation, almost. He was no angel – darkened by the earth’s sun and strengthened through tribulations; here was a creature who was not reluctant to be, as was his birth, man.

At any given instance, something had to rupture, but she enabled the impulse to escalate in confinement. Her expression was a lake with the immobility of glass, an unbroken surface – the deathly hush before some overwhelming storm, prepared to burst into explosion. Her equanimity remained unchallenged. Although the sharp silence screamed of profanity, he operated with cutting composure in utmost silence.

She wore his gift upon a slender wrist – a watch of chains, binding time and pushing forth the waiting game. A naked collarbone was exposed beneath the thin, orange sheet, which she excused under the pretenses of a robe. The royal colors were endless, not dissimilar to her legs as they stretched over the bed. The sheet was thin and barely acceptable. It lay against her skin like another man, flowing over and cascading against the covers.

Her hard eyes were shut; her lips, partially opened; her face – closed. Concealed by the hair that enveloped her merciless features and swallowed them alive. Bound by the ticking of his clock as he sculpted the clay, apathetic to her genuine skin but feet away.

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The way I see this is like a model who is posing for a sculptor, a sculptor the model probably has worked with before and grew attracted towards. But she can't say anything now and has to wait, since the sculptor is still working. I like the idea here, usually conflict doesn't consist of waiting.

I wonder though about this part: "She wore his gift upon a slender wrist." Is it literally a gift, or is it something given to her to wear for posing? It seems to be a figurative watch, so I'm supposing it is also figuratively a gift.

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The gift is figurative for the time she had to wait. It's a form of sarcasm, because it was not a gift at all.

The chains are imprisoning, and the watch signifies each second which slips by as he remains "apathetic to her genuine skin but feet away".

The immediate idea presented is that of a model and her sculptor - beneath that, an unnamed conflict.

The artist fell for the woman, and she gave him a chance - but he was not in a position to act. He asked her to wait.

She continues to respect him, but understands that enough is enough.

Edited by Summer
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