Dear Arcani
I know you’ve been asking around about my drastically diminished output of, as you so lovingly call them, overpriced doorstoppers. And while we have our disagreements when it comes to art and whatever you call those paint splashes you make on canvas, I do feel that you deserve an explanation.
As you know my pieces stopped appearing on the market around the summer solstice, but truth be told my drop in productivity began a few weeks prior when I experienced a series of thefts. 4 over a two week period to be exact, each occurring when the mixture of my base clay was nearing completion, and each theft stealing all the clay I had been preparing to work with.
They were admittedly more annoying than costly, the thefts I mean, it wasn’t like the base clay being stolen was expensive, it just took a while to prepare. Honestly there were far more valuable things in my studio, even if, like you, the thief considered my work of little value. I keep in my studio valuable tools of my trade, so the theft of the clay but none of my tools left me puzzled and admittedly intrigued.
Without my finished clay mixture I was unable to progress any of my ongoing works, and so I decided to satisfy my curiosity and stop the thefts in one fell swoop. I started the process of making my clay mixture and on the second evening I left the mixture to coalesce into my preferred clay mixture, but I did not go to bed.
No I hid in a dark corner of my studio and awaited my thief, so that I might bring an end to the foolishness and figure out who were so carelessly interrupting my work. The moon had passed its zenith, and admittedly I had fallen asleep. I was awoken by the sound of cracking pottery, startling me awake with the primal fear you might experience should you ever wake to the sound of a tearing canvas. Momentarily confused and panicked I looked around the studio to see what had broken, but instead of a ruined art piece my eyes fell upon a figure shambling across my floor towards my now completed clay mixture.
The figure, and you will have to forgive me for keeping the suspense going a tad longer, one too many letters from Morl in her practiced hand has given me foolish aspirations for literary abilities that might one day be a shadow of one of her lesser works.
The figure was tall and its limbs looked off to me even in the darkness, the lengths were wrong, with one arm far shorter than the other, and as it walked one foot set onto the floor silently, while the other leg lacked a foot. It was merely a stump and it hit the floor hard with that same sound of cracking pottery that had stirred me from my sleep. I couldn’t fathom why a leg stump would make such a sound and I pondered this as I watched the figure reach my clay, scoop up a handful of it and start to apply it to the shorter arm.
Curiosity bested my fear, I stood up, lit my lantern and watched as the figure turned to face the light source. The figure, and you will now see why I’ve stubbornly stuck to this word my old friend, stood bathed in the light of my lantern and I saw it for what it was: A golem.
I have helped craft my fair share of golems so I believe myself to be quite knowledgeable in their making, but this was unlike any I had seen before. It was not the thick limbed lumbering colossus you no doubt picture in your mind, it was a thin golem, with long slender limbs and dexterous fingers. In all honesty it was a masterpiece, even as I watched it in the light of the lantern I was overwhelmed by that realization. The craftsmanship to produce this golem was beyond any I had ever even heard spoken of, but the figure was not what it had so obviously been in its prime, it was damaged, extensively so.
It watched me through two perfectly sculpted eyes, those were only features left on its face as everything below those eyes had been smashed with such force that the clay had shattered and fallen away. Most of the front of the torso had similarly been hammered until it was a flat surface of cracked clay. The shorter leg did indeed lack a foot, and the shorter arm ended in a stump as well. Looking at the clay the golem had applied to the arm stump I realized what these night time thefts had been about.
The golem stared at me with unblinking eyes, it didn’t move and for a while neither did I, I could do little more than admire the artistry that had gone into its creation and decry the travesty of what had befallen it. Tell me: Could you look upon a ripped canvas of some long lost painter’s masterpiece and not attempt to save it? I can tell you now that I could not. I stepped forward, with more excitement than common sense and admired the figure. Even in its ruined state it was a work of supreme beauty and as I studied it closer I saw where it had attempted to repair itself. Hardened clay clumsily forced into cracks and holes, a mockery of the superb artistry of its original body, and not properly bonded either so it was cracking already and falling off in flakes as the golem moved to follow me with its gaze.
I would tell you that I knew something about this golem and that that was why I acted as I did. That it was a creature of a righteous nature, or that it was destiny that it had come to my studio, but in truth I simply could not let a masterpiece such as this remain in such a state of disrepair. If I could do something, anything, to restore some of its former beauty I knew in my heart that I had to do it. I knew it might kill me the moment I stepped too close, but none the less I reached for my tools and scooped up a bit of my clay.
Maybe it could sense my intentions, maybe it simply didn’t consider me a threat, I wasn’t sure, but it didn’t stop me.
And so I began to sculpt.
—
I know Morl says her characters write themselves, Tirkan says she simply carves an existing statue out of the granite that holds it, and even you mention that the lines and colors are more dictated by the paint itself than chosen by you once you start one of your paintings. I have in truth never felt that strong a pull of inspiration as I worked, perhaps that is why you choose to deride my work whenever you have the chance, but there I finally felt it. The golem itself stood still as a statue, which I suppose came naturally to it, but I could hear the voice of its creator through every intact curve of its shape.
I will not divulge the secrets of how I worked my art to you, as it would be as pointless as casting pearls before swine, so I will instead describe things simply in such a way that even you may understand them. I started with the missing foot, the most important part to give the golem the stability I would need. It was a simple matter of recreating the mirror image of the other foot and it let me start to understand how this beauty had been built by a more skilled artist than I.
As the foot was complete I rebuilt the broken arm, once again taking notes from its surviving twin to guide me, but as I finished up the wrist and began to work on the hand I no longer had needs of a visual aid. I was not imitating what I saw, nor was I making something wholly new, I was simply creating what was missing. I was in tune with the golem and as I moved from the arm to the torso the golem flexed its new fingers and I felt its unmoving eyes on me with something akin to gratitude. The chest took the longest to sculpt because of the extensive damage, the sun rose and fell twice while I worked on that part alone. I was hungry and exhausted and completely unable to stop, my need to continue my work superseding all other needs or wants.
Eventually I had repaired every crack and had found the missing parts of her from her curves. Yes: her, it was only when I sculpted the missing curves on her chest that I realized it. I spent an entire day sculpting her breasts and by the time I was done I knew every square millimeter of them better than I knew my own chest. When I was finally finished I went to work on the most important part of her, her face. In theory it was the smallest broken part and so should not have taken long, but it was also the most exquisitely detailed part of her and at this point I was so in tune with her form that I could see every detail of it even before I began to sculpt it. From sunrise to sunset I worked on her face and as I put the finishing touches on her lips my legs collapsed under me.
Strong hands caught me and held me against a chest I was intimately familiar with. The fervent energy which I had worked with had drained out of me upon the completion of my work and it was all I could do to keep my eyes open. I looked up into its eyes and it looked back into mine, I can’t be sure but I think I smiled first and she returned the smile, the white pearl teeth I had carved and set in the clay behind the lips shining out to me. I know she is the one who kissed me though, for I wouldn’t have had the strength to do so, and that she was the one who carried me to my bed and kept watch over me as I recuperated.
I spoke to her when I woke, and in extremely rare moments she to me, days upon days I talked to her and I admired her form with eyes and touch. It pains me to say that my work was not the perfection I had strived for, it was close mind you, but the beautiful sheen of her original sculptors finish had been beyond my abilities even in that blessed inspired state. I didn’t study her, for that would imply a professional interest that wasn’t there, I simply admired and reveled in her form and her wisdom when she chose to share it.
On the summer solstice I lay with her and I saw the same love in her unmoving eyes that I know she saw in mine.
As the sun set and the day vanished she vanished with it.
I will never meet her again.
I know that to be the truth.
I am not saddened by that, not truly, because she gave me more than any artist could ever hope to receive.
I see her now whenever I look into the clay, and I feel her beneath my fingers whenever I shape it.
So it is not that my work has stopped, it is simply that I now strive for perfection.
You will see no more doorstoppers, but perhaps one day I will be able to show you her perfect beauty.
Your friend
Angelicus
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/9lojoq/working_the_clay_mffantasy