Rodin is at the top of the stairs
like a sculpted man. He stands still
until, on command, he comes down,
down, down, as if descending a throne.
Pygmalion-like, he is thinking of
flesh, of flesh turning to stone, stone
turning to bone, moment without
movement, marble into motion.
Rodin works his hammer and
chisel, blinks away stone with a
flickering eye, and steps back
(rough-flaked with marble)
to turn the torso on its wooden
pedestal, wedge his chisel, strike,
turn it again and strike another
blow. He does these things for
the camera; he already knows how
it will work: how it will make his
body into flat dead air and then
let it pretend it is heavy with life.
-Joyce Sutphen
used with permission by the author
