The Sculptress

. . . Emma is much too young—”
“Never too young to learn,” the sculptor said and turned to her. “Are you interested in sculpture?”
Emma looked down at her teacup, then at her mother, and, finally, at her father. “I’ve seen statues before, but, until today I didn’t know how beautiful they could be. I’d like to learn.”
“Will you favor me with a drawing? I have a sketch pad and pencil in the casting room. Let your parents enjoy their tea.”
Emma heard the hurried whisperings of her mother directed at her father as she got up from her chair. The sculptor took her hand and they walked to a large wooden table near the studio doors.
“Look around, decide what interests you, let your muse run free.” He turned in a broad circle, and she followed him, taking in the sculptures around her. “Sit or stand, do as you wish, but pick the subject and let it fill you. Create.” He pointed to the pad and charcoal on the table. “Let art become part of you.”
Emma drew in a breath—being here was like being in Alice’s Wonderland—and, at last, someone—someone of note—appreciated her for who she was. She picked up the pencil, the wooden shaft shaking in her hands, and sat at the table.
“Don’t be nervous,” he said. “If you’d like, I’ll return to your parents. It seems your mother may need some calming down. Give me a quick impression in twenty minutes. We can go into the fine details later.”
As the sculptor returned to her parents, the marble bust of a man, a soldier wearing a helmet, caught her eye. French positioned his chair to sit again, its legs scraping against the floor, the conversation beginning anew.
The face reminded her of the drawing in her classics book of Perseus holding the severed head of Medusa.
The helmet flowed easily from her hand, the charcoal outlining the curved form swelling in pleasing lines around the face. She sketched quickly, finishing a rough likeness of the head, as well as the addition of a body defined by muscular biceps, abdomen, and legs. The figure was nude, but, except for the head, turned to the side to conceal any features that might be embarrassing to her parents.
The minutes evaporated, and she looked up from the pad to see the sculptor studying her from across the room. Her mother and father stared at each other across the table.
She went back to the face, but no matter how hard she tried, it looked nothing like the bust. The nose lacked the delicacy of the sculpture; the eyes, though rather lifeless in white marble, had even less vitality on the page than on the form. The chin was too angular and displayed none of the smoothness of the bust. Even she could see this as she trudged back to the table. She glanced at one of the shelves crammed with plaster figures and sketches. There, on top, was the nude figure of a woman, and angled beneath it, the nude form of a man. Her mother would have turned her eyes away and offered recriminations at the sight of both drawings, but Emma found them pleasing, particularly the man, whose frontal figure displayed every part of his anatomy. She thought of Kurt and wondered what it would be like to draw him.
“Let’s see what you’ve created.” His lips parted in a half smile. He was sitting like a judge at the end of the table.
She handed the pad to him, only its back visible to her mother’s inquisitive eyes, and waited for his pronouncement about her effort. Emma shuffled her feet, until Helen shot her a look that shouted, “Sit down.”
The sculptor took his time, and after a few minutes of intense study, placed her drawing faceup on the table. Her mother squinted at the form, closed her eyes, and leaned back in her chair. Her father seemed interested, but subdued, in what she had created.
“Very nice . . . respectable work. . . .” He lifted the pad between his hands and showed it to her parents. Shaking her head, Helen looked away.
“I don’t mean to distress you, Mrs. Lewis, but the human body is the bread and butter of the artist . . . unless you’re a master of landscapes only, like the French of late. But, even then, you can’t be a true artist unless you understand the form, which the French have already demonstrated.”
“I find it perverse,” Helen whispered, her gaze still turned from the pad.
“Mother?” Emma pleaded. “Did you hear what Mr. French said?”
Helen nodded. “I don’t want to speak of it.”
“Do you think my sculpture perverse, Mrs. Lewis? Look around you. You’ll see the naked breast of womanhood, the unadorned form of man.”
Her mother pursed her lips and stared at her husband. Emma feared that the worst was to come, perhaps in the carriage ride home.
“Your daughter has raw talent,” the sculptor said to her father. “If you agree, she could study with me over the next two summers before she goes off to higher studies. The preparation would do her good. Would you like that, Emma?”
She looked at her immobile mother and, seeing nothing but resistance, nodded. “I’ve never attempted sculpture, but I’d like to try . . . if you feel I’m good enough.”
“Of course. The work will be hard, but worth your while. Over the winter, continue with your sketching, but begin to think in three-dimensional terms, not only on paper, but in space—in your mind.” He looked again at the drawing. “The body is fine, but we have some work to do with the face. Do you agree?”
“Yes. Faces seem to be my weakness.”
“When you’re done here, you’ll have no weaknesses.” He rose from his chair. “Let’s have a tour of the garden before you depart. It’s lovely in any kind of weather.”
Emma got up, her legs wobbling with excitement from the news. She would be studying with one of the country’s best sculptors. She couldn’t wait to