art conceals art

Aug 23 2012

although Pygmalion had always believed women should be held in esteem, by his middle years it had become clear to him that he was not himself able to think well of them. no matter how he tried they appeared to be always filled with rubbish, and in never seeming worth the effort of vacuous chit-chat and other idle flatteries various courtships had gone awry, leaving him unmarried and with no companion for his leisure.

being a gifted sculptor, it is surely an inevitable progression that he should have fashioned himself a sort of love-doll with which to while away the hours. it had taken him many years to slaughter the number of elephants necessary for the ivory of her skin, and many more to carve and reassemble the tusks, never wasting a sliver. but finally reclining with her on a couch, he stroked and massaged her, thighs buttocks breasts and neck, until the ivory became slack and pliable, like a latex sack. he filled her flesh with scavenged car parts, old magazine editorials, moldy fruit, household cleaning products, dust bunnies, and whatever else seemed right to him, in no configuration but what supported her shape best, stuffing it all down her throat so no incision would cross her perfect surface.

observing all of this, the goddess Venus took pity on Pygmalion, and brought his ivory maiden to life. as he lay on top of her licking at her cool lips, he felt could it be, a twitching of limb, a pucker of muscle? yes, these lips had real warmth in them, this face human colour. her lashes fluttered and she opened her crystal eyes, which were saturated with loving recognition. Pygmalion looked into them. “Hello, Jane,” he said.

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