The Unbreakables

by Lisa Barr

  “No, Sophie. Wait!” Nathalie calls out.

  “Please, stop!” Claudia shouts at me. I stop.

  Nathalie clears her throat. “Just hear me out.” She gestures toward the chair next to her, but I stand in place, crossed arms. “Okay, fine,” she concedes, clearly understanding that she may control everyone else around her—but not the mother of her muse. “I visited Olivier’s class months ago when I was in between treatments. I was receiving an honor at the École des Beaux-Arts. I saw your daughter there. You must understand that I have been working on Eve on and off for nearly ten years. I’ve thrown away three different versions of her. Nothing felt right. I had been working with another model for the past year to carve the form, and yet something was still missing. I’m a perfectionist, I know. But being sick, I was running out of time, and voilà—there she was—sitting in a classroom, taking notes. That face. Those strong cheekbones, the long line of her neck, the fierceness in her eyes, the willpower set in her chin. Eyes, both young and old at the same time, and I knew—”

  “You knew what?” I demand, cutting her off. “That Olivier was sleeping with his student? Did you know back then that she was with him when you ‘found your Eve’?”

  Her face drains of color. “I had no idea that they were together. Not until later.” Nathalie looks away from me as though hiding something else. She glances back, her blue eyes fasten onto mine. “After that class, I asked Olivier whether he would mind if I asked his student if she would consider modeling for me.” Her voice lowers. Her forehead begins to perspire profusely. “I am suddenly very tired.”

  She closes her eyes briefly. Claudia walks over to her, but Nathalie holds up a shaky hand to stop her. “Not yet, Claudia.” She turns back to me. “I met with Ava and told her about my final installation. That I’m sick and she was under no obligation. But she said yes immediately and that she didn’t need time to think about it. It was her choice to pose for me, but I was determined to make it work for her. I took photos, drew sketches, made a mold of her face, even carved a small two-foot-high clay sculpture of her—all the prep work was done in my Paris studio so that I did not interrupt her studies. She came to Èze for a few weekends throughout the semester to pose for me. I promise you that Olivier had nothing to do with it.” She nods to Claudia, who brings over a pill and more water.

  My daughter. So much I don’t know about her. I’ve always felt our bond was strong, that we talked about everything. Why didn’t she tell me? But Ava has always been so independent. I stare at Nathalie and think about Ava, then about me at nineteen. If the great Nathalie Senard had asked me to pose nude for her final installation, told me that she was dying, I too would have said yes in a heartbeat. I wouldn’t have had to think twice about it. It’s art, not porn. I wouldn’t ask my mother. So get over yourself. But still.

  “It was all Ava’s decision, Sophie. No one pushed her into it,” Nathalie emphasizes again. “I have known Olivier since art school. I won’t lie. I knew that if he hadn’t already, he would fall for her. Ava is his type. But I didn’t care about that—I had found my muse. That’s what mattered to me. It was your daughter’s face I had to sculpt.” She points to Eve. “A snake and a spear can be done with my eyes closed. Bodies are important, of course, but a face—a face is everything. It tells the whole story.”

  I stand there, immobile, trying to absorb all of this. Nathalie starts to look slightly feverish, but she refuses to be coddled by Claudia, who notices it too. “So when Olivier mentioned that you sculpt, that you worked in marble and showed me photos of your work, I knew even before meeting you that you would be the one to help me complete Eve. Most important, from the photos I had seen, it was clear to me that you understood what it really means to polish a sculpture.” She smiles to herself. “Or as the Italians call it, the ‘prolonged caressing.’ ”

  I press my lips together. I know all about “prolonged caressing.” The finish on marble is everything. I’ve always felt that way. While other students in my sculpting classes took advantage of contemporary finishing materials, I preferred going old school, using rasps, emery cloths, and even straw to polish my pieces. It was more labor-intensive, but it made all the difference from a sculpture being simply glossy to sheer luminescence.

  “Your work didn’t just simply shine, Sophie—it glowed—even from a photograph on a phone,” Nathalie continues. “That’s why you’re here. I thought to myself how could I be so fortunate to have met my muse and then have her talented mother finish my life’s work? That doesn’t happen. I’m not lucky. My life has been beautiful and full, filled with hard work, great success, great love, and great loss—but never lucky. And never without a fight. Now facing death, I’m suddenly lucky.” She smiles again, a sad, forced smile. Remnants of her beauty radiate through her flushed face. “We were destined to meet. My vision, your hands. Your daughter, my Eve.” She reaches for my hand. “There is something else . . . You must know that I have never let anyone except for my husband and my models into this studio. I’m very private, possessive of my space and my work. I’ve never had an assistant before . . . I’ve refused. Until now. So please, don’t leave, Sophie.”

  It’s the way she says my name that is fully loaded. I’m all she has. Time no longer exists. We both know it. I hesitate. Olivier had told me not to touch her, but I do anyway. I reach out and take her frail extended hand into mine, feeling the thin, clammy translucent skin. I stare at the early-onset age spots and bruises covering a woman who is not much older than I am. My daughter, her Eve. I gaze up at the spectacular unfinished sculpture, at the masterwork in progress that will be celebrated long after Nathalie Senard is gone. Long after I am gone. Long after Ava is gone. Her vision, my hands.

  She gently pulls away, eyes Claudia and nods, giving in with a long, rasping sigh. Her caregiver immediately begins to pack her up. Where is she going? Home? Bed already? It’s not even 11 a.m.

  “We will begin again tomorrow,” Nathalie says weakly. “Stay here as long as you like. Take your time. Get to know Eve. I must rest now.”

  Claudia lifts Nathalie onto a wheelchair that was discreetly hidden in the corner of the studio. Nathalie doesn’t say goodbye. Her eyes are already closed. She is a woman with fierce pride. This deteriorated version of herself is a humiliation that I imagine she cannot bear. She is staying alive, clinging, only to see her final work actualized. We both know that an artist whose hands have been tied is already dead. I glance at my own unused hands. Perhaps I, too, have been dead without knowing it all these years. I stare up at Eve, at my Ava, and I see the familiar lines of her body, that face—no doubt casted with the finest flawless white marble—strong, proud, nobody’s victim, and eerily alive.

  ONCE NATHALIE LEAVES, I CIRCLE EVE. SHE IS BAREFOOT, WITH FEET THAT ARE STILL unfinished blocks of marble begging to be shaped. Nathalie must have done the torso first, the snake and the spear, then the face, given the timetable. I climb the scaffold stairs slowly, observing Eve inch by inch. Most sculptors working with such a giant piece of marble would use a hydraulic lift. My guess is Nathalie is like me, old school too, perhaps meeting Michelangelo on his terms by using traditional tools and methods.

  I think back to my art history class freshman year in college, recalling how Michelangelo’s friend and biographer Giorgio Vasari, also an artist, described how the master carved his figures by actually laying his model inside a coffinlike box. He’d then fill the box with water until the figure was submerged. Slowly, he’d let the water run out of the box and the parts of the figure that emerged first are what Michelangelo would cut out first on his stone block. Authenticity for Michelangelo was not everything—it was the only thing. Every detail counted. My hunch is Nathalie’s perfectionism is the same.

  Unlike Rodin and other sculpting giants who utilized assistants, Michelangelo, famously, also did all of his artwork alone, paranoid that his secret techniques would be stolen. Like Nathalie, no one was allowed to watch him. It must be so difficult for her to even hav
e me here, invading her precious sanctuary. The hefty price tag of her illness is not just artistic impotency, but also much worse than that—dependency. On me. I wipe the tears forming in the corners of my eyes, look around at her magnificent studio, all the genius that been created within these secluded walls. Soon, it will be gone.

  But not yet. She’s still here, still fighting.

  Inhaling deeply, I assess Eve from the back again, from the sides, taking notes inside my head. I envision it all. I see exactly what needs to be done, and I can even hear her voice. It’s Ava’s, calling out to me, to complete her, to refine her, to free her from the confining marble that still entraps her.

  I return to the ground, surveying the sprawling studio filled with myriad tools—chisels, mallets, hammers, rasps, angle grinders, rifflers, pumice, sandpaper, cloths. I can’t believe it is all mine for the taking. I spin around the studio as if I have a skirt on that swirls. I imbibe every inch of Nathalie Senard’s secret world like a kid in a candy store. This is what she wants—my passion, not my pity.

  Eve is Ava, Eve is me. If this marble vision of Nathalie’s, symbolic of all that is woman, can stand alone and fight the good fight, well then, so can I. I lightly trace my hand over the smooth marble base. It’s cold and satiny. God knows, I remember this velvet-to-the-touch sensation. Eve is now mine to shape, mold, and mother. I don’t have to learn this Eve or study her. I know her, I feel her. I gave birth to her. I can do this.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  WHEN I ARRIVE AT THE STUDIO EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, NATHALIE IS already there, and surprisingly alone. Her scarf today is school-bus yellow and she wears large gold hoop earrings. She looks like a gypsy, upbeat, and ready to work. Within seconds, I can tell she is high, even before I smell the marijuana.

  “Where is Claudia?” I ask, looking around.

  “At the house. She will come soon. I wanted to be alone with you.”

  I smile at her. “Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

  She giggles, and it’s warm and a little loopy. “The point is I want you to make me uncomfortable,” she says. “You were here for a good two hours after I left yesterday. You had time to think. What would you change about Eve?”

  Our eyes meet—I’ve thought of nothing else all night. Eve is stunning, a contender, but nowhere near the level of the David. There is still much work to be done. I can’t tell her that—but can I?

  Make me uncomfortable. I think back to what one of my professors told me when I’d asked him, How do you know when you are done with a sculpture? When you think you are done—ask questions, he said. If your answers match your intention, only then the piece is complete.

  “So . . . ,” I begin, “David is beauty personified, yet Eve appears angry. Is that what you intended to convey—her anger? Or do you want wisdom? Or beauty? What is Eve’s true power for you? Looking at her now, I’m not convinced.”

  Nathalie smiles with closed lips, her eyes shine bright. “The old ask-questions-find-the-intention technique—I know it well. I’ve taught it.” She laughs airily as though reminiscing. “But yes, let’s play that game and see where we go. I want Eve to be battle-ready. David is beautiful, but don’t forget that he has that slingshot over his shoulder, the rock in the other hand. His physical power is not overwhelming—not to mention that his, shall we say, genitals, are less than extraordinary. They are underdeveloped like a boy’s—not man-sized. The way I see it, our David had something to prove. And so does Eve, but differently. David takes on Goliath and is triumphant. I want Eve to take on the world and challenge it, defy it. Do you understand me? I want her created with great beauty, but her mind and body even stronger. Fearless . . . that’s what I want for her. I want her to be what I once was.” Nathalie’s smile vanishes completely. “Not as I am.”

  Time stands still for both of us. I’m staring imminent death in the face and we both know it. I walk over to her, kneel in front of her chair. “I don’t know you well. But I know you are unbelievably strong. It’s okay to be afraid. It’s human.”

  She shakes her head and one gold hoop falls from her ear to the floor. I pick it up and gently put it back in. She touches my hand. “It’s not death that I’m afraid of—it is dying before I’m done. I’m afraid to leave Eve with her feet unfinished, her back imperfect, her face still searching. I have nightmares about it. I need to ground her before I go. Do you understand me?” Her voice trembles with what little force she has left.

  “More than you know.” I pull up a chair and sit next to her, urging her to let it out, just like Lea had done for me the other night.

  “I never had a child, Sophie. I wanted to, and we tried, but lost multiple pregnancies. I could get pregnant, but couldn’t keep it. I finally stopped trying because I couldn’t take the loss any longer. My work, my sculptures, are my children. Eve is the young woman I would have wanted to raise. I want you to give her everything that I won’t be able to.” Nathalie’s sparkling eyes are eclipsed with tears.

  “I understand you,” I whisper, thinking of all our unsuccessful attempts to get pregnant after Ava was born. So many tries, so many failures.

  “So you know.”

  “Yes.”

  She wipes away her tears with her sweater sleeve. “My husband is a wonderful man, a gifted painter in his own right. He was there when I was on top of the world and is here for me at the bottom, at the very end. I am not so wonderful,” she laments. “I am selfish, demanding, rude . . . I take what I want, give when I want to. I have hurt him when he has been so good to me.”

  I think about Gabe. All that hurt and I was good to him. “Mistakes,” I say carefully.

  “Yes, but some of us make bigger ones than others.”

  We both turn to look at Eve. “She, on the other hand, will be flawless. Eve will be the counterpart to David when we’re done,” she emphasizes with fire in her eyes. “That’s my dream—it’s always been my dream since I was a young art student and saw the David for the very first time. I believe Michelangelo’s intention was to present the singular moment just before David decides to fight Goliath. It’s the decisive moment that impacts all humanity—the crossroad between choice and action—that’s what I want for Eve as well. To confront that inexplicable moment of reckoning with strength—can you do that, Sophie? Can you capture that? Can you make sure of that even if . . .” Even if I die before Eve’s finished, which she doesn’t say, but lingers heavily in the air between us.

  I hold her lucid gaze. “I will make sure of it. No matter what.”

  “Then let’s get started.” Her eyes transform almost instantly from relief to animation. She springs into action without even moving from the chair. Squeezing the sides of her chair, ready to go, Nathalie is no longer a dying artist, but still the creator, still in command. I can only imagine her in her prime. She must have been a powerhouse.

  “Feet first,” I say, knowing that grounding Eve is of utmost importance to her.

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “Then I need yours.”

  Nathalie doesn’t question me as I reach down, slip off her ballet flat, and expose her right foot. I walk briskly across the studio, grab a block of clay, bring it over, and place her foot on top of it.

  “Point your toes, then flex,” I say. She knows the drill. I need to see all the joints, the muscles and especially the twitch of the tarsal on top of her foot—the most widely used muscle of the entire body. I place my hand on her foot, close my eyes, and trace it, feeling the topography and texture, transmitting the image into my head.

  Only when I’m ready do I release the foot, stand, and walk toward the statue. I eye the chains binding Eve, holding her firmly in place so that I can work. I circle her slowly, cautiously. I envision the foot, the strain of the tendons, the muscles and ligaments running along the surface and alongside it. The Achilles is crucial, connecting everything, then come the bones of the feet, even the shape of the toenails is all being sketched in my mind before I dare make
a single move.

  Taking a deep breath, I first draw my incisions on the marble and begin the roughing out, then taking the point chisel and the mallet, I give it a hard blow—not too hard, but just enough to let the stone swim. The exactness, the knowing, comes from years of practice. Never mind that I’ve been in hibernation. I then grab a finer-toothed chisel to model the form, removing the stone and debris quickly and efficiently. I inhale the familiar powdery scent of the dust particles and I’m intoxicated. Using the rasp with its sharklike tiny teeth, I grind it into the stone with my entire body. Sculpting is not about technique; it’s about losing your ego, refining, and flowing with the demands of the stone—it’s lovemaking in its highest artistic form.

  I don’t even see Nathalie anymore as I work, even though I’m aware she is watching every move I make. She begins to blur and blend with the rest of the studio. I have entered the Zone. For so many years I have been dead, passionless, left out in the cold. But not now. I’m once again inside the room, flowing and alive. I smell the sweet-scented marijuana filling the air around me. The pain must be getting worse, but Nathalie doesn’t say a word, doesn’t complain, asks for nothing, just watches me and smokes. I’m already higher than I’ve been in years. It’s an indescribable ride: first the heart thumping, the jitters, the stomach drop, then floating trancelike, as though I am flying wingless. My body begins to dance the sculptor shuffle, twirling around Eve much like Pygmalion, the mythical Cypriot sculptor who carved the perfect woman out of ivory and then ultimately, unequivocally, fell in love.

  HOURS PASS, BUT TIME IS IRRELEVANT. I DON’T EVEN NOTICE UNTIL CLAUDIA comes in, announcing a mandated break. Nathalie and I both ignore her. According to Claudia’s watch, which she holds up for both of us to see, Nathalie has had more than enough for the day. She must eat, must rest. This has been too much action for her patient, Claudia says, blaming me with her eyes.

  “What’s the worst thing that could happen—I die?” Nathalie laughs. “Leave me alone.”