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The Statue
by Steve Anderson
SGAcreative.com
(c) 1995-2005,
Steve Anderson, Writer@SGAcreative.com
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It moved.
I know you'll think I'm mad, or that the museum staff surely would have noticed,
but I tell you, the statue moved.
Now, I don't mean anything grandiose, like a patiently suffering
pose becoming one of ironic satisfaction, or the Mona Lisa's smirk becoming any less peculiar than it
is. I just mean that the statue I've been studying for the past few months--the one of the girl with
that oddly pleading expression, the one they unearthed in Crete last year--started to look even more
pleading than ever, starting just a week ago. And if you look at my sketches over the course of my studies,
like I did when I was trying to understand, you'll see it, too.
It's taken weeks, at the slow
rate of stone, but her fingers aren't as limp and hopeless as they were. It's slight, and God, how gradual,
but her fingers are straightening, stretching out, pleading for something beyond their grasp.
It's
as if she's finally found hope, as if in the flood of people I've watched coming through, shivering at
her passion, maybe scrawling one or two sketches, and moving on to the other exhibits, she's finally
found someone who can see, who can know, who can, perhaps, give her what she wants.
I've been
watching her, and watching people watching her, for weeks, and she's right: in all that time, I've only
seen one person with the marble-like patience to try to understand her needs and her desires.
She's
calling out across the ages, and she's calling out to me.
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