<h>Merrimack, Jack. "Death of a Sculptor." //New York Times//, 3 December 2017.</h>
Renowned sculptor [[Ash Michaels->Occult Book Passage]], better known by his pseudonym Pygmalion, was found dead in his New York City apartment yesterday afternoon by his agent, Jackson Rosenthal. An autopsy could not be performed because the body’s decomposition was too advanced, but drug traces and paraphanalia were located near [[his body->Living Room]], and sources close to Michaels confirmed that he had a cocaine problem.
When asked why they had not reported Michaels missing, his few connections said he would often disappear.
“He’d just get wrapped up in his work for weeks at a time. We never really made a big deal, unless he missed a deadline,” said Rosenthal.
Several days prior to Rosenthal’s discovery, there were multiple calls to local police stating that the [[ghost of a woman->Waking Up]] could be seen through the windows. I spoke to some of these callers, who stated that responders dismissed their claims on the basis that ghosts don’t exist.
No other individuals, ghostly or otherwise, were found in the apartment, but what was left of [[a destroyed statue->Carving]] was found on the floor of the workshop, the ivory hand wrapped around the artist's chisel.
At the time of writing this article, authorities could not be reached for comment.
Michaels had no surviving family members.
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Macondo+Swash+Caps|Roboto" rel="stylesheet"><h>Weaver, Leda. “Chapter 1: Magic in Art.” //The Occult in New York City//.</h>
Excerpt
Of all the artists whose work has magical properties, the sculptor Pygmalion is in some respects the most flagrant, taking his name from the mythical Greek figure who carved a statue so beautiful that Aphrodite gave it life. However, none of Pygmalion’s displayed works show [[any traces of life->Hallway]], and he has pointedly denied that such a thing is even possible, let alone that he ever could or has accomplished it. Whether Pymalion, who was born with the name [[Ash Michaels->NYT Article]], is in denial of his power or simply keeping his Neopagan wisdom secret is anyone’s guess, but several sources from his youth have accounts of his ability to animate his art.
Ari Smith was close to Pygmalion when he still lived in his small rural hometown of Anywhere, MN. She told me that “Ash was a real sweet kid. When we were little, you could ask him about just about anything and he’d tell you how much he loved it. His dad started teaching him woodworking when we were in grade school, and I remember he once brought this butterfly he had made for show and tell. It was real clumsy, kinda cartoony even, but he just went on and on about it. He’d named it and everything. Kid was smiling fit to get his face stuck like that! Anyway, as he was talking, I swear, I saw the thing flap its wings. He finished up real quick after that, refused to pass it around either. Some of my friends thought they saw it too, but others didn’t notice."
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Macondo+Swash+Caps|Roboto" rel="stylesheet"><h>5390 Quarry Boulevard, Unit 510, New York City, NY 10065</h>
The statuette is me, in miniature - an uncanny clay blueprint, so detailed that I am compelled to touch my face. Some features are absent, the lines aren't right, but I recognize the six inch girl as myself as surely as a pond reflection. Am I meant to look like //this//? So graceful and smooth? I set her back down and try to assume her pose. It feels natural, but when I glance into the tall mirror standing by his dresser, it shows me an abstract painting. There is no dancer or goddess - [[just strange shapes->Outside]].
The room is a mess. Only the nightstand on which the statuette carries herself is clear of trash, except for a scrap of paper torn from a notebook. Brushing my fingers across it puts me in mind of pine. His hasty scrawl is on it: "Galatea, at last."
I stumble back to the [[door->Hallway]] of the bedroom. Rosewood? I put a fond hand against the wood. No. Walnut.
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Macondo+Swash+Caps|Roboto" rel="stylesheet"><h>5390 Quarry Boulevard, Unit 510, New York City, NY 10065</h>
The hallway's lights are screaming-bright flourescents, and there is more dust than I remember. My greedy hand feels the [[books->Reading]] nearby before withdrawing sadly. Their crafted shelf stands at attention, ready for use, feet spiralling beautifully - like all the glass display cases lining this hall. I'd recognize his work anywhere.
Not everything on display is. His work, that is. All of it is full of talent, but I can pick out the ones with a little [[ember of life->Occult Book Passage]]. I wonder how he decides which sculptures to keep here, away from the galleries. Are these scaled-down birds and dragons and gods the ones he loves least, or best? Or just the ones that don't make profit? I wonder where I will go when he is done with me. I wonder where he's been lately.
So many of these figures could fly away, if only they would [[wake up->Waking Up]] as I had.
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Macondo+Swash+Caps|Roboto" rel="stylesheet"><h>5390 Quarry Boulevard, Unit 510, New York City, NY 10065</h>
The hum of flies swats at the open-kitchen air as their bodies pile on top of something that must have been nutritious once, unrecognizable now in its bowl and the bowels of a hundred tiny stomachs crawling along the countertop. Decay filters through to the living room, matching the nicotine-yellow walls. The couch is worn-down and sagging under the weight of him.
I shook him a minute ago, gently at first, but harder when he still wouldn't wake. It didn't work, and now I stare at him, hands on what approximates my hips. Has he changed his look up again? He is bloated and looks waxen purple, dusty gray; I almost can't recognize his face. I study the form of him as long as I can stand, but something unsettles me. I turn and sit on the floor by the couch, thinking that if I wait long enough, he might wake up, or else animate as I did. As gears shift in the clock on the wall, [[the familiar itch->Carving]] returns. I think [[back in time->Love]] to take my mind off it.
When that fails, my hands seek something to do. I reach toward the spoon - steel, mostly - on the coffee table in front of me and turn it over in my hand, brushing off the odd syrup sticking to it. There's a needle there too, and a lighter. I know [[what they are used for->NYT Article]], in a general way, having watched him. With a sigh, I turn to look at him, still laying there lamely. The smell he's giving off is full and organic, with an underlying copper like a razor hidden in the bread loaf, much like the maggoty bowl of food still sitting on the kitchen counter. I'm unsettled, but not disgusted. As I tentatively brush some of his hair from his face, so swollen his eyes are just two sunken slits, his mouth a narrow hole, I realize very suddenly that he is dead. He will not sit back up, he will not go from still to breathing, as I did, and he will never scratch [[the itch->Carving]] again.
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Macondo+Swash+Caps|Roboto" rel="stylesheet"><h>5390 Quarry Boulevard, Unit 510, New York City, NY 10065</h>
The cold air of winter billows in, slapping at my swirling white skin, and I shut my eyes and savor it for a moment. When I open my eyes again and step out, I'm greeted with the swaying of trees that I know will all be something else someday, when the sprouts have grown to take their place. I glance back from where I came to see windows like carefully closed eyelids, a building the color of marble, or pallor, or both. It's hard to fully grasp that only one of these festering balconies belongs to my home - that each one must hold others.
Down the street is a progression of streetlamps and sidewalks. In the other direction is more of the same. So this is it - the world, I suppose. I can [[go anywhere->Leaving]] now. Something smells sweet.
I hear the squeak of shoes coming to an abrupt stop on the pavement. I turn my head to look at [[the young woman->Love]] so startled by the sight of me; she can’t tear her eyes from my face, at first, but once she takes it all in, she bounces up and grabs my arm.
"Woah, how'd you do this? Is it some kind of suit? How does it move like that? This might be the coolest stunt I've seen an artist pull in the streets yet. You almost look like a real statue! Did you make this out of real ivory? Can't talk? That's cool, I get it, artistic vision and all that. Here, just let me snap a picture."
She babbles on so quickly I don't have time to think of anything to say, let alone say it. This small girl is soft and the color of a deep, rich wood, just like my father, the only company I have ever had, though her smile is kinder. I knew he wasn't the only flesh-statue in the world, but in //my// world that never mattered, because he was all of it. Now [[he is gone->Living Room]], and she is not, and something about her frightens me. As she pulls her phone out and takes a couple steps back, she calls out, "I think the only suggestion I have is that the [[half-finished->Leaving]] aesthetic isn't really working."
I'm hardly listening. I stumble back [[into the hallway->In the Building]] and fumble the door closed with a slam, breathing hard. The sweet scent in the air fades with the [[panic->Carving]], and I regret not being able to place it.
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Macondo+Swash+Caps|Roboto" rel="stylesheet"><h>5390 Quarry Boulevard, Unit 510, New York City, NY 10065 || Two Days Prior, 12:58pm</h>
I take a deep breath, then walk back the way I came, seeking comfort. I climb [[the stairs->In the Building]] precariously, return to the apartment, walk painfully past [[my husband's->Love]] buzzing [[corpse->Living Room]] and the display cabinets in the hallway. My fingers slide across the walls as I walk - plaster, oak, more plaster, occasionally brick (really just an odd mix of clay and shale). Autopilot peters out and I come to a stop in front of the workshop door, which I left ajar earlier. The wedge of afternoon light flowing across the floor grows as I pull the door back now, revealing the softer lights and brighter colors of the workshop that he hasn’t visited in some time and never will again. It's a patchwork room of materials and colors, the window looking out over treetops. Hours ago, I hated this room, but as I take it in now, I feel grateful and protected. I open the window with some confused false starts, letting in the winter bite and the sweet aroma floating over from down the street, and now I feel the room is complete.
I think back to what [[the girl from before->Outside]] said, and feel out of place. [[The itch returns.->Carving]]
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Macondo+Swash+Caps|Roboto" rel="stylesheet"><h>5390 Quarry Boulevard, New York City, NY 10065</h>
There's [[a door->Living Room]] with frosted glass panes set into the wall behind the couch. Coats hang next to it, so I take one down, rubbing the wool in between my fingers curiously. It's rough, but not unyielding, and I'm a little envious. I pull it on, more for the sake of experimentation than warmth, and open the door. Stairs lie past - a challenge for my shapeless, hobbling feet, but somehow, I don't fall down as I make my way out of the building. The [[final door->Outside]] of the ground floor, at the end of [[another narrow hallway->Hallway]] lined with apartment entrances, stands as proudly as the gates of heaven, or maybe just a dam, or a ferry - whatever will carry me over into [[what's next->Carving]].(unless: $itches > 0)[ (set: $itches to 0) ]
(set: $itches to it + 1)
(if: $itches is 5)[[[Scratch it.->Itch]]]
(else-if: $itches is 4)[He will never shape me again, and I may as well be formless. Without [[his intentions->Bedroom]] for me, what am I? The itch is more than I can bear.]
(else-if: $itches is 3)[I'm [[trapped->Leaving]] in a mobile prison of ivory, burning with the need to be gone. [[I wonder->Hallway]] if I'll ever escape.]
(else-if: $itches is 2)[I look down at my hands. One mostly finished, one not. I flex the finished fingers, then try to do the same with my other hand. The blocky, approximate shape twitches frustratedly, the impulse reaching my hand and having no outlet of movement, instead building steadily to a visceral madness. The hand is almost [[cartoony->Occult Book Passage]] with its squarish proportions, fingers marked only by shallow indentations. I claw at it with more defined fingers futily; only he can scratch this itch.]
(else:)[My [[father->Waking Up]]'s steady carving hurt, but the more he assured me that it was necessary and normal, the more I could tolerate it. His voice was grave when he talked about it, [[urgent->Reading]] when I resisted. After he pinned me down to drill into me, making me go rigid for want of tears, I learned it was better to cooperate. As I got more used to the pain, I noticed another feeling - release. Now if too much time passes between his sessions over me, discomfort sets in.]
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Macondo+Swash+Caps|Roboto" rel="stylesheet">//“Why make them? The sculptures?”
“For other people to love.”
“There are others like us?”
“There are others like me.”
“And they love you?”
[[“...Only my work.”->NYT Article]]
“Not you?”
“Nobody loves me.” He pauses, sighs, and kisses my fingertips - the finished ones. “Except you.”//
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Macondo+Swash+Caps|Roboto" rel="stylesheet">//“Can we go [[outside->Outside]]?”
“No.”
“Not even to [[the hallway->Hallway]]?”
“...No.”
“Why not?”
“Sweetheart, if you truly wanted to leave, I would let you. But you aren't even finished yet. You don't want to be anywhere but here, [[in this room->Workshop 2]], by my side."
I am insignificant, burdensome, and confused. His words sound strange, like a distorted echo of my thoughts. A gnawing [[itch->Carving]] starts somewhere deep inside me.//
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Macondo+Swash+Caps|Roboto" rel="stylesheet">//“That hurts.”
He startles, but quickly relaxes, glancing up at my face. He continues [[scraping away->Carving]] flakes of soft ivory from my torso. "I'm only taking away the parts that are weighing you down," he tells me. "Soon, you'll be free from this block, and you'll be exactly as [[you're meant to be->Bedroom]]."
I frown. "Why is that your job?"
He chuckles. "You couldn't be complete without me. I'm your father, your creator."
I, new to this world, believe him.//
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Macondo+Swash+Caps|Roboto" rel="stylesheet">//The books confuse me; the strange shapes somehow take on meaning in my mind as I look at them. It is, I think, art... of a sort. Not the same kind [[my father->Waking Up]] makes, but it still carries a resonance. I brush my finger along the lines of symbols.// Otava rima. Sonnet. Spenserian? //I try some of the words on my lips.
<a href='https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46565/ozymandias'>"My name is Ozymandius, King of Kings..."</a>
"What are you doing?"
Surprised, I start a little. I didn't hear him come in, but he stands at the other end of [[the hallway->Hallway]], having neglected to take off his coat or put his bag down. [[Before I can respond->Outside]], he continues, "Reading! How are you reading? Do you understand this?"
His voice has an urgency to it, and hesitantly I recite the rest as demonstration. "Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair."
He crosses the length of the hallway and quickly pulls the book from my grasp. I am not holding on so tightly that he cannot take it from me, but the thin paper tears against my solid fingertips. This just seems to anger him more. Brandishing the book, he says, "You shouldn't even be out here. How did you get [[the door->Workshop 2]] open?"
I lift my chin and frown. "It wasn't locked. And I like the books." It isn't strictly true that I like them, but it feels important to disagree with him.//
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Macondo+Swash+Caps|Roboto" rel="stylesheet">She stands in the workshop, breathing heavily. The tools are right there. Always have been. He would have never expected her to take them up. She never needed to. Until now.
Ivory is soft; it chips away easily, curls as it comes off. You can almost cut it like wood. She knows this, but she prefers to think her father's talent lives on in her. It isn't long before it's time to change tools for finer detail, but she doesn't. She keeps chipping. Is she imagining her racing heart? She surely shouldn't have one - but then, she surely shouldn't be moving now, and look at her, gouging into her leg with unwavering focus, making herself panic. She thought it would be simple - finish what he started - but when she reached the outline she knew was right, she still felt trapped, and she wonders now if even he knew what he was building, or if he was only hollowing her out for something he dreamed up.
The foot is gone. It lays there on the floor now, as detached from her as her husband's dead body. Her hands keep moving as if they aren't hers either. Chipping. Her foot to her leg, one leg to a stump, some torso to chiseled, scuplted, perfect, to empty, Galatea, fading with every scrape, until there is nothing in the room but the warm white of the furniture, an open window, the lingering aroma of joints and a nearby bakery, a few blocks of material, and a pile of dust and curled slivers carried out into the world slowly by the wind.
<h>Fin</h>
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