Aim to Engage 2023

5 Pygmalion

My artist's studio lay quiet under the full moon glowing through the skylights. The floor to ceiling windows on the north side of the huge chamber brought flickering shadows from the gaslights on the street below. The house on Lombard street was ugly according to the neighbors.

Mrs. Egbert didn't like the square modern lines, or my name. Why did my parents name me Venus? I suppose it was the perfect way to become a household name. After the earthquake Papa rebuilt in the style of clean lines and functional practicality.

His latest trip to Europe filled his head with interesting new ideas. He did love being first and brought Bauhaus architecture to the rubble of San Francisco.

But right now, I wanted to capture the muted colors and silver pearl glow of the moonlight. I ran down from my bedroom, where my window overlooked the flat skylights of the studio and unlocked the door

A half finished self portrait in marble stood in one corner. Two finished mobiles for my brother and sister hung from hooks in the frames between the ceiling of glass. I worked in all sorts of different materials. Metal, stone, wood stood stacked against the east wall. A variety of prepared canvases and boards leaned against the opposite wall, and finished works were displayed on either side of the door.

A cherub with a sly smile stood on pedestal waiting to be moved to the fountain in its new owner's garden. I went to the easel, picked up the palette beside it and began mixing paint. The fruit for the still life sat on the single table, with fascinating shadows playing across it.

Streetlights from below, where the lamps reached the bottom of my windows, and moonlight from above. A wing fluttered in the corner of my eye. What? A bird? At night, an owl perhaps, but not inside. Confused, I stopped my brush mid-stroke.

Turning to scan my surroundings, I stared out the window. There was one surviving palm tree outside. Nothing except the the delicate fronds of its huge leaves moved. And there it was again, reflected in the window. Was I seeing things? I whirled to study the paintings, and my eyes lit on the cherub. His wings were in the wrong position.

I walked over. This was a finished alabaster sculpture. I wasn't particularly proud of it, but commissions bought supplies. Definitely looked better with his wings extended, as if he would lift into the air at any second. I stroked the feathers. The details took me hours of patient work with a tiny chisel.

And then I laid the back of my hand against his chubby leg. Warm. Alabaster is a cold stone and his wings moved again, slipping feathers against my shoulder, and tickling my bare skin.

It couldn't be! I often imagined my subjects as living breathing beings. I talked to them as they emerged from the raw block. Or log, or as I welded iron together. They are as real in my head as any child is to their parents.

Pygmalion. George Bernard Shaw's play. One of the few I have had the pleasure to see live in a theater. But that's a figment of a playwright's imagination. It couldn't happen here.

"Why not?"

I pinched the flesh on the inside of my left arm.

"Ouch!"

"Of course, it hurts. You're as awake as I am."

A snide chuckle accompanied the comment. He flew up and I cringed, expecting a shower of shards. His wing tip bent as he drew it across the glass before gliding back to land neatly. His wings solid as I ran a trembling finger along the curls on his head.

"I need to take a break. There's no way this is possible."

My mother's voice floated from the wall to the right of the door. From high above my head, where I kept the first painting I ever did of a person.

"I'm proud of you Venus. You bring beauty to the world. I gave you the right name. It was my choice for you."

I dropped to my knees. I can't tell a soul. Papa might understand, but no one else can know. When I quit shaking, I went over to the stand beside the easel. I poured turpentine into the jar there, and placed my brushes in it, swirling them to clean the oils out of the bristles.

"I not sure I have heard and seen correctly," I said as I put the caps back on my tubes of paint. "But I expect you to be as you were when I finished you. Silent testaments to my skills."

I looked up to confirm, and my mother winked at me. The cherub flicked his wings. Could I trust myself, or them? Or was I simply crazy? I confirmed my brushes were drying, the container of solvent was tightly closed. No fumes after I dumped the dirty fluid into the sink in the corner

Did Shaw have a crazy artist friend? Is that what inspired the play? I locked the door after drawing it closed behind me. Could I stay away? Yes, that's the trouble. I was working too hard. A break is all I needed. I had enough for the show. I don't need to create anything else.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The museum guide brought us up to the second floor. The house was a testament to early Bauhaus architecture, but the studio was startling.

"This is where Venus Blackstone worked. Her creations are prized by the most prolific art collectors in the world. Unfortunately, she stopped. She left this house never to return to her calling."

The cherub to my right, caught my eye. His snarky little smile endeared him to me.

"We left everything as it was when we finally opened the door after her father left this house to the San Francisco Art Society."

The cherub winked at me. Mother's diary was right!