1016 in rubber
Rubber When I enter the room, my host, who has been gracious and lively all evening, holds the heavy door for me. My eyes fall upon the central column. First glance. A figure, human-like, appears to be bound there. "My most recent sculpture," my host says as the door clicks shut behind us, a dull sound that echoes throughout the large, open space. Second glance. I gaze at the sculpture and walk, scribing a wide circle about the piece. "The ropes are real," I say, astounded. "Most assuredly." He’s smug, pleased. I am a little annoyed at his manner, but the piece is lovely. "Obsidian?" I ask, guessing about the black material he utilized to carve the semblance of a female body bound to the pillar. He laughs, not loud. An irritating laugh. "A perfect body," I add, "But too perfect, don’t you think? Such lovely breasts." I walk closer, my heels tapping on the black tile floor, feeling a tingle in my own nipples, for a moment sensing ropes gathering my flesh into its embrace. "A peculiar effect," I murmur. He watches me closely. "What do you mean?" I’m about to answer, when I freeze. Certainly it didn’t move, this being, this figure that absorbs me, so black, so meticulously rendered. The chest, the breasts, exquisitely molded, rise. Fall. The movement was imperceptible from where I stood before. And at her feet in a perfect circle, drips of her sweat fall and coalesce, delineated by the hem of her long black dress. "My God." I think I whisper the words. But they have a grotesque effect. Because the figure reacts as though it can hear, as though it is not the fabrication of a human form rendered in the glass of volcanoes. The "sculpture" struggles. Droplets of saltwater splash about her feet. Black rubber. I can see that now. I can see everything, or so I think.
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