*Clink*

A high-pitched noise, the sound of metal on stone

*Clink*

*Clink*

The source of the noise, a hammer and chisel meticulously stripping away thin layers of marble. The statue is marvelous, and to the untrained eye appears complete. It was crafted in the image of a woman who rivals Aphrodite herself. Her body is curvaceous, fertile and welcoming. Her long, voluminous coiled hair is gathered, haphazardly thrown over one shoulder, and is frozen in place, covering one of her ample breasts. She reclines on her back facing upwards, her upper body elevated by tension placed on her forearms, both of which remain flat on the ground. Her knees are raised and bent, forming an upright triangle between them, her feet and her rear, the latter two being firmly planted. Her legs are spread, her toes are curled, and her muscles are taut. Her head is thrown back and she is wearing an expression that initially reads as sexual ecstasy. The woman is captured mid orgasm.

The Sculptor is a troubled man; The Sculptor is a self-aware man. Painfully self-critical. Not that it justifies his issues, but he knows of them, perhaps better than most. He is obsessive, obnoxious, insensitive and extremely libidinous. He is so intensely lustful that he has come to view his sexuality as a disease he must fight at all costs, and the society around him has only served to reinforce this belief. Any expressions of eros he has put out in the past resulted only in strife and repulsion from others. This complex has grown so serious that the man refuses to participate in any and all romance and seduction, he thinks those such women who accept his advances will inevitably come to despise him once they view the sheer depths of his arousal. The only member of the fairer sex he could possibly see himself intertwining with currently is one whom he trusts absolutely, one whom he loves. This is not reassuring, for love is rare, the rarest thing in the world. This is the driving force of his work, to contain the beast within. It is first and foremost a critique of himself, told through the lens of a beautiful woman. Upon closer inspection, her expression is more ambiguous than what one would expect. It isn’t clear if her visage is twisted in ecstasy, or in laughter, or in severe pain. The lens by which the Artist is sculpting her is equal parts pathetically comedic, painfully problematic, and titillating. But who is this woman? The Sculptor, like all true artists ever to have existed, is putting his life in his work, and the life of another. The Sculptor has a muse.

Her name is Mel. She resembles the marble figure almost exactly, though with the way her olive-toned skin shines in the sunlight, it is obvious why the Sculptor remains unsatisfied with the state of his work. She is kind, strong, beloved in the community and by those around her. She is so friendly, in fact, that she even managed to befriend our dear lead character. Given his animal nature and plethora of insecurities, the Artist has significant trouble remaining on good terms with the fairer sex, so their relationship, for him, is vital and important. Their bond is not without its troubles, however. Somewhere in her feminine instinct, Mel has intuited the man’s beastly essence. Time and time again, the Sculptor has apologized to her, assured her of the strictly platonic connection between them, and he hasn’t lied. Though obsessed with her, he does not wish to pervert their friendship; he values it above all else, and he knows better than most the destructive capabilities of lust. Convincing the muse of this, however, has proven difficult, and not without reason. A beautiful woman like her has been lied to all her life by men like him.

It is for this reason his work has taken the turn it has. The Artist hopes beyond hope that this will finally allow others, not just Mel, to comprehend him, to accept his need for eros, to intuit his self loathing. I can hear your thoughts, dear reader. You are thinking that there is no way representing a woman in such a sexual manner would dissuade her from thinking you are trying to have sex with her. In fact, it almost certainly will have the opposite result. You are correct of course, my audience, but you fundamentally misinterpret the mindset of the man. This piece is not just about convincing the muse that he doesn’t want to sleep with her, it’s about so much more, it’s an attempt to be understood. He wants to bear his soul, fully without obstruction, and he wants to be accepted after the fact. On top of this, he believes he can spot a distinct, powerful sexuality inside of Mel’s being. He does not think this shameful, on the contrary, it seems to him to be the driving force behind her limitless kindness. Sex is the explicit subtext of the work, to remove its libidinal aspect would make it untruthful, would make the Sculptor no better than any other man. For men lie about themselves, lie about their natures and their beliefs and their intentions and their feelings and their pain, all just to get in a woman’s pants. The Artist denounces the charade, refuses to play the game, for the only cure to his disease is to be loved, wholly and earnestly.

There is one minor setback, however. Our lead has not actually told his muse about his project. It’s a tough sell, you must admit. He thought it better to finish it, thought she would see the subtext, thought she would see past all the eros and finally witness him, him and only him. Thus, he chiseled away, day after day. He liked to work outside, in the sun, the light revitalized him, gave him the energy to see his task through to the end. For the entire summer, he sat in a quarry just out of the limits of his hometown, surrounded by his past works and slabs of marble, carving away with sweat on his brow. The Sculptor had a unique approach to this piece. He began with the feet, he felt it was of utmost importance that he captured the curve of her toes first, to even begin to bring the essence of his Goddess to life. Then, he skipped the leg entirely and went on to carve out her nether regions. But he did not start with her fig as one would expect, no, he began by fixating on her pubic hair. Delightfully coiled as the beautiful locks which adorn her crown. This strange process obviously hinted at something dark and pathologic behind his work, his fetishistic fixations emerging first was not a coincidence. However, as was mentioned before, operating through libido was the only way to reach the truth in the project. It is one of two driving forces of humanity, I do not think creating art from something so fundamental is necessarily sinister. Eventually, after agonizing over every tiny detail of the statue for months, the Sculptor finally had something he believed to be his magnum opus. Something he could be proud of, for once. It was time to reveal it to its subject.

He leads Mel by the hand, down into the quarry where he has been working, blindfolded. He doesn’t want to spoil the surprise. The Sculptor does not feel even an ounce of anxiety, he is so sure of the quality of his work that all he can experience is giddy excitement. He’s thinking finally, something that represents me, wholly me and only me. I now have something I can point to, when asked who I am. I will finally be accepted; I will no longer be plagued by constant misunderstandings and apologies. He positions the muse in front of her mirror image and removes her blindfold with a wide grin. There is a full minute of silence without reaction, as she takes in the work. Then, the Sculptor’s smile fades as Mel’s face twists into disgust and anger. The muse is horrified at the lengths of perversion the Sculptor has gone to with his art, as any sane person would be, and even more horrified at being implicated as the subject. She can’t even look at him, she turns around and walks away. She refuses to acknowledge the sculptors’ desperate cries as she hurries off. What was he thinking!? My sweet audience, you’re going to ask yourself that same question repeatedly from this point on in the text. For it is here where our lead’s true character is revealed: His biggest sin is not lust but pride.

The Sculptor really believes that his statue is something great. Something that will completely change how people perceive him. A chance to be taken seriously. Up until now, the Artist’s projects were generally considered to be works of satire, jokes. He had himself cultivated this reputation by hiding behind a veneer of irony. He would no longer be afraid of sincerity. The comedic elements would necessarily come at his expense, but he would be laughing along with the spectators! He had, for a long time, been laughing at his own pathetic life. He knew he was emotionally parasitic, toxic, carcinogenic. He knew all that he touched had the life sucked out of it; all he encountered began rotting. He was God’s sick joke; the man upstairs sure has a sense of humor. He was born with privilege, raised in wealth, and he never once appreciated a second of it. It is possible the Sculptor doesn’t have the required emotional capabilities inside of his brain to reach a state of happiness. He is, by all metrics, subhuman.

Still, he is at a crossroads. He can’t exactly debut this statue to the public, after that reaction. Hurting Mel any more than he already has is the last thing the Sculptor wants. But this piece is rare, it is something he believes in. He has been in the deepest depths of sorrow for as long as he can remember, and the only beacon of light, the only way out is represented for him in these curves of marble he has been working so hard to perfect. There is still hope of redemption. If people could only see past the subject, they might finally see him. So, he decides to do something horrible. He defaces his art.

*Clink*

Tears fill the Sculptor’s eyes with each strike of the hammer.

*Clink*

*Clink*

He feels like he is peeling away the visage of his actual friend. The first layer gone is to him the gorgeous, spotless olive toned skin she is so very proud of. He strips the flesh effortlessly, as if removing a facemask. Even beneath her skin, she is breathtaking. She is all beauty in her nervous system, beauty in her cardiovascular system, beauty in her muscular and skeletal and respiratory systems. All her flesh, down to the very individual cells, contain the essence of the sublime. The way the muscles above her mouth are ever so slightly stronger, from all the joy she brings to life. The way her cheekbones are perfectly symmetric and pronounced. Her deep, dark eyeballs, normally obscured by low hanging eyelids, now visible in all their glory. All must go, must be destroyed without a trace. He continues to flay his object of worship alive, for hours.

Four days later, the Sculptor is setting up in a small gallery to display the dreaded orgasm statue. The crowd for this event is much bigger than anticipated. Without knowing it, our lead has cultivated the perfect storm. Firstly, there is an issue with the title. The Artist has chosen to go with The Faceless Muse, in reference to a niche painter he is a fan of. Unfortunately, the general public isn’t particularly interested in niche painters, and they have taken it in a completely different way. The title, to them, is obviously hinting that this piece is based on a real person, and, given the satirical lighthearted nature of his previous works, they have taken it to be a kind of game. Already, before the curtain has been raised, the audience is chomping at the bit to figure out exactly whom the subject in question is. Already, they have missed his message.

The Sculptor, of course, is none the wiser. He is still wholly preoccupied with his work, with his mental masturbation about how great of an artist he is. He doesn’t see the way they look at him, the way they smirk. He raises the curtains, and the sounds of shocked gasps fill the room. Immediately, it was obvious to all who the secret muse was. Our lead had done too good of a job, had captured her essence with too much finesse. Also, his ‘defacing’ of the statue had been amateur, at best. Through his tears he did not realise that remnants of Mel’s nose and eyes were still visible. It’s pandemonium in the gallery. People are shouting, their faces twisted in anger. Women who are jealous of Mel’s popularity are sneering and snickering behind their hand. Onlookers make immediate assumptions about the Sculptor’s life, about his relationship with the subject, about his past romantic relationships with others. Surely, a man who thinks this is okay must have been horrid to those women. Perhaps it’s his anger at them that made him this way? They make judgments about parts of the Sculptor's life he never thought would be under question. He is stunned, horrified. He is baring his soul, and all these people are taking from it is petty gossip. The depths of their minds, merely puddles.

The Sculptor makes a snap decision. He can’t handle all this, can’t bear it. He hoists the marble onto his back and dashes out of the gallery as fast as he can. Adrenaline carries him further than he should have been capable. Behind him, sneering faces, judging him for his pain. Ahead of him, darkness. It is late at night. Suddenly, he trips and drops his statue. One of her arms breaks off from the fall, and she lands on her side, facing away from him. Our lead is laying at the feet of a woman draped in black. She has a round face, with large round glasses in a thin wire frame. She is smoking a pipe, and she sports a pair of huge raven’s wings on her back. Snakes can be spotted slithering around within her long brown hair. As she speaks, her words seem to hang in the air around him, like the smoke she breathes.

This is fate, my young man. You had wished to become a serious artist. Well, all true artists die for their art. You bore your soul to them, and they rejected you. But had you not expected this? Could there exist another reaction to someone so disgusting, so lowly and perverted? If you had been accepted by the general public, would you have been satisfied? Do you not routinely reject that which they value, on principle? This is the cost of your work, son. You cannot martyr yourself for your art without jeopardising your relationships, without offending those closest to you, without hurting your subjects. Did you think this would be easy? And now, you have sealed your fate. Perhaps, if you had the courage to stand by your work, there was a chance someone would connect to it, someone would understand you. You were too cowardly to hurt those close to you, and yet you still deigned to aspire for greatness. Now, the hurt remains, with none of the benefits. You have sealed your fate, punctuated your tragedy. You will get what you deserve. With a mighty flap of her dark wings, she flies off, leaving no trace.

Footsteps can be heard in the distance. A group approaches our lead, still on the floor beside his work. It’s Mel, and with her is a gang led by a man the Sculptor recognised. His name is Paris, and he is also an artist, in the loosest definition of the word. He is handsome, well liked, and has many friends. His art is safe, sterile and not challenging in the least, but also sloppy and amateurish, uninteresting. However, he routinely is given opportunities to display his work, thanks to his ample connections, and reluctance to experience any internal conflict whatsoever. His most self-critical piece, titled Sad-Fuck, is a crude drawing of him having sex with a beautiful woman, whilst apparently sad that she does not appreciate his splendor enough. I’m serious, that is the depth of his self awareness. Still, women flock to him in droves. They don’t actually care about his art, they just find it hot that he holds the title of an ‘artist’, along with some moderate clout. Mel herself has fallen for his mediocre charms in the past.

Mel feels humiliated, and rightfully so. She has no idea what it is that she has done to deserve such awful treatment from a friend she has been nothing but kind to. Now, the whole town is picturing her naked, assuming things about her sexuality she wants nothing to do with. And it is all the fault of this tiny, weak man. This disgusting excuse for a human. She wants to hurt him; she deserves to hurt him. His pain is no justification for treating her how he has. She is shouting at him: So you’re a sad, sad man, is that it? Something broken, wanting to be understood? Well, I understand you alright. You are a pathetic creature, lashing out at womankind for nothing more than not wanting you. How dare you implicate me in your fantasies, how dare you trample upon my public image, how dare you molest me with your mind. You are nothing but slime to me, and you will learn. You will never again hurt another woman in the way you’ve hurt me, I’ll make sure of that.

Paris motions his cronies to hold down the Sculptor. He grabs a hammer and chisel, which our lead always keeps handy in his belt in case of emergencies, and his goons pull down the Sculptor’s pants. His hairy cock is tiny and shrivelled in fear. Paris places the chisel just above the base of our lead’s shaft, the metal feels cold against his skin.

*Clink*

A swipe of the hammer, followed by a blood curdling scream.

*Clink*

*Clink*

The Sculptor is castrated faster than one would expect. Blood pours from his fresh wound, and pools between his legs. The men are sneering, and Mel looks on without a shred of guilt. This creature has gotten what he deserves. They all walk away, leaving our lead to bleed out in the cold night. The Sculptor begins crawling to where his statue fell, her back is facing him. A trail of blood follows him as he inches closer and closer, in agony. The pain feels almost good, in a way. He is finally free of this curse which has followed him like a shadow since he hit puberty. He curls behind the statue, and wraps his arm around it, as if he is spooning it. Despite his best efforts, he wasn't able to recreate the warmth of her skin in the cold marble.

Author’s Note

Clearly, I didn’t get across what I wanted from the last few stories. They weren’t meant as commentary on any of the people involved, or commentary on my past relationship. They were meant as a self critique, about how I was dealing with newfound loneliness. You were not supposed to like the narrators, in any of the stories. In each case, their obsession with sexuality made them bad people. I should have made that more clear. I am sorry.