#funerary statue

[zsorosebudphoto]

Cementiri de Montjuïc, Barcelona, 18/10/22

[artschoolglasses]

Marble funerary statues of a maiden and a little girl, Greek, 320 BCE

From the Met Museum

[ukdamo]

Etruscan Girl

Patrick Cullinan

It is a moving thing

to see in this figure

how the maker

has shown the girl

or young woman

plaiting her hair

so that the arm and fingers

as they move,

the tress itself,

are one piece in the clay,

fused, that no part

of the model should crack

in the oven,

that no part of the moment

be lost.

Just two feet high –

it might have been

an image for her tomb:

but who knows that

or anything

about this girl

who has no name,

no story? Even

the tongue she spoke

is blocked, obscure:

dust upon dust,

twenty five centuries,

annulling

all memory.

And the figure half turns,

to stare at me,

as though I

could give a name:

as though death did not

repeal identity,

as though there were

a body there,

a spirit that I must see,

clearly.

And I try to imagine

those who called

the craftsman in,

the maker,

saying to him:

You knew, you knew her well,

make her for us, make her

as we knew her in this life.

And it was

as he had seen her last,

sitting outside the house,

debonair in the morning,

plaiting her hair in the sun,

the hands and fingers quickly

pushing in and out

so closely that

the moment and the movement

fused:

and the maker saw

that they were one.

In memoriam S.B.C.

[zsorosebudphoto]

Cementiri de Montjuïc, Barcelona, 18/10/22

[nothing-person4l]

walks in the middle of the night, fields covered in endless void, dim lights coming from cemetery.

its just me here, the only people nearby are buried under ground. one blood flow, one heartbeat. and it is loud.

these paths know my steps, they are printed in the dirt everytime i visit.