A Story

Many people have heard the tale of Pygmalion, but they have been sadly misinformed. I knew the artist well and have heard his own account of the now well-known events. Here before you are his very thoughts, told to correct the error and share his woeful story.

The workshop resounded with dull thuds and resonant clangs as the hammer hit the chisel. Many a day Pygmalion would leave at sunset, joyful for the productivity, but with hands numb from the vibrations carried through his chisel. He would take the short walk home, often thanking the gods for his talents and savoring the beautiful Mediterranean breeze that sweetened the corpuscular hour.

At home, he was greeted by his adoring wife. She was a beautiful and diligent woman, always hard at work when he arrived at their house. Some days he would walk over and kiss her gently while she continued to work. Others, he would rush about the house, excitedly talking about the day's creation as he prepared a meal for them to share. She was not an artist, but always listened politely and when she did see a finished statue she would praise Pygmalion for his giftedness and the beauty of his work.

These habits continued for many years, until Pygmalion's wife began to wonder what life in the workshop was like. She began following Pygmalion to work in the morning. She pulled a chair into the corner, away from the shower of falling marble, and watched intently as he worked. After days and weeks, she was no longer perturbed by the chips of stone, nor by the dust and noise. She drew her chair closer and closer, desiring to be more a part of Pygmalion's creation.

Pygmalion reveled in his wife's attention. He lavished affection on her, often making sculptures for her or dedicating them in her name. With her in the studio he had a ready model and began posing her for works he was making. It is true that some evenings she would rub her hands and complain of an almost arthritic ache, but these occurrences were so rare and separated by so much time that he thought very little of it. When her hands ached, he pulled her to his side and rubbed them gently with his own calloused, scratched and bruised fingers.

This was a time of flourishing. The statues Pygmalion created were adored by the public. His wife now regularly stood on a model stand right next to the block of marble Pygmalion was carving. Once Pygmalion glanced at his wife while swinging his mallet and missed the chisel entirely, crushing his hand beneath the blow. They rushed home together, bound up the hand, and sat together gazing at the sky while the sun dipped below the edge of their beautiful island.

In the morning, Pygmalion told his wife he would stay home for a few days to let his hand heal. She responded that she would still like to go to the workshop, perhaps to tidy up or just to ensure that no one bothered his things while he rested. Pygmalion consented and watched his wife walk away. When he finally retuned to the workshop, Pygmalion felt something unusual. The workspace was the same. His statue was as he left it. Even the mallet that had done so much damage still felt comfortable and familiar in his hand. He worked through the day, though he took more breaks to rest his hand, and at sunset began to walk home with his wife. She stepped down from the platform and stiffly walked to the door. Pygmalion's trained eye could see a slight difference in her form, though he could not tell what he was perceiving. That whole evening she seemed less herself, rigid and cold. He asked if her hands were hurting her and began to rub them. She did not respond, but he could feel a tremendous tension in the muscles of her hand. Even his hardened digits could feel the stoney flex of her frozen fingers.

In the morning, they returned to the shop. As Pygmalion's wife climbed onto the model stand, he watched in disbelief as the dust from the floor of the studio swirled around her feet and began clinging to her peplos. She stared at him and did not seem to notice, striking a pose instead to prepare for the day's work. His wife's toe peeked from beneath her clothing, and her noticed not only how pale it was, but the rich luster it had. He reached for her garments and slapped at the dust to shake it away, but he stubbed his finger as it bounced of the granite folds. The dust of the room rose higher up her thighs. He rubbed and smoothed, shooing the dust away, but her once supple flesh was replaced with unbending stone. He began to sob, feeling her arms, her breasts, her elegant neck, and at last her soft cheek. He caressed her cold flesh, trying to tell her how he loved her and staring into her eyes for some sign that she understood. In an instant, all light was gone from her eyes. All that remained were the dull, white orbs of a statue.

To be sure, Pygmalion did love a statue. Certainly, a metamorphosis did occur. But the story of Pygmalion is not a comedy; it is a tragedy.