Day 86

And so he carved a child out of a block of wood.
It was not his first, and it would not be his last. But each time he did so, the craftsman felt a little relief.
For into each one he poured a secret. Just a little one. No more impressive in isolation that a single piece of a puzzle might be.
However, puzzles are most impressive when all fragments are assembled.
So. What image would they make, these sons and daughters of a lifetimes of work?
When allotted side by side, in a designated order, what might one witness?
Hundreds of these statues, created in great detail. Yet it is only, truly four faces.
Four faces in every age of their life. Imprinted on his memory, now etched onto immobile faces.
And by carving them, he could finally forget them.
And the secrets whispered? Each one began with the phrase: Forgive me...
His sins aren't of great interest. It is his struggle that is unique.
For he had unknowingly joint that woeful sect of artisan, one which pours out their grief upon the canvas in hopes that absolution will somehow pour back into them.
That what they offer up to some unseen deity, will be transformed.
Shame into triumph. Jealousy into love. Sorrow into beauty.
... poor man. People forgive people. He'd have been better off whispering to a real face. One not frozen in a moment from his memory. One that can be affected by his words, and in turn affect him.
Even a mirror would be better.
This is not to say the alchemic change will not occur. Pain and horror are many times the fuel for serenity and peace. However, this can only be granted for the witness. Not the actor. The audience is the true device by which this miraculous filtration may occur.
They are the magicians.
Not the artist.
This, sadly, is often never learned, and if learned: learned too late.
Still he carves. Still he suffers. Still his secrets are sowed into the unchanging smiles.