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Friday, 9 September 2011

Made of Marble



When you see her you think of Greece. Ancient pillars, the marble statue of a goddess, the soft flow of a toga turned to stone. And yet there is no statue in her, no solid, crystalline marble, brazen but static. You think of Greece but she is here and this is now, and everything about her is movement, malleable, changing. Curls pinned loosely escape in whisps that kiss a cheekbone, the lobe of an ear. The folds of her dress fall in everchanging patterns. Always she appears abreast her surroundings, the moment as it passes, always she appears in eager anticipation of the moment ahead. And still: when you see her it is as though she were stepping towards you from a distant antiquity. Contemplating her graceful approach you note the marble necklace, handcrafted diamond shapes, edges softened and worn by time. It is not of the austere grey marble one might expect, but a vibrant fleshy hue. You think of Pygmalion's statue. How when Aphrodite breathed life into her, the marble pallor of the statue's skin flushed a rosey hue, her lips colored a pale pink.




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