BASILICA REEVE | D2
Sept 26, 2018 0:30:25 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Sept 26, 2018 0:30:25 GMT -5
BASILICA REEVE
17 || THEY/THEM || D2
FC: MARIANNE THESEN LAW
3 CBs after this
It’s the stone, solid as it chips away, that moves them. On nights when the stars twinkle through the haze, they sit in a studio littered with rubble, grit speckled in their hair. Around them, grandmasters work tediously on their own pieces: marble develops curvature, a mound of stone slowly becomes a figure.
Their own sculptures are alright, their mentor says. But the anatomy needs a little more work, the proportions just off enough that it slides into the uncanny, the texture smooth but still planar - polygons instead of flesh. They nod in return, quiet diligence paving the way forward.
They feel most at home in those twilight hours: the almost rhythmic pang of mallets hitting chisels, the jokes that are bellowed across hallowed halls, the echo of their feet as they descend the mountainous staircases, the smell of the cardamom tea that’s brewed around 4. “Go home, Basilica,” the sculpturists tell them when the clock strikes. “The sun yet rises, but soon, it must.” They stay anyway, and when the sun makes its way back up into the sky they trek home nibbling on a small roll, piping hot.
It's like this each weekend, and every Monday that Basilica ditches school for just a little more sleep; it's fine, they reason, as their mother kisses them on the forehead before heading out to work. I know what's waiting for me in the future: polished marble and the late night rush of creation. And even on the nights when they can't attend - when the bar below their house is in need of bartenders, or waiters, or even someone to manage the set list - there's a comfort in the back of their mind.
No matter what twists and turns they're forced down, the end is always in sight.
Their own sculptures are alright, their mentor says. But the anatomy needs a little more work, the proportions just off enough that it slides into the uncanny, the texture smooth but still planar - polygons instead of flesh. They nod in return, quiet diligence paving the way forward.
They feel most at home in those twilight hours: the almost rhythmic pang of mallets hitting chisels, the jokes that are bellowed across hallowed halls, the echo of their feet as they descend the mountainous staircases, the smell of the cardamom tea that’s brewed around 4. “Go home, Basilica,” the sculpturists tell them when the clock strikes. “The sun yet rises, but soon, it must.” They stay anyway, and when the sun makes its way back up into the sky they trek home nibbling on a small roll, piping hot.
It's like this each weekend, and every Monday that Basilica ditches school for just a little more sleep; it's fine, they reason, as their mother kisses them on the forehead before heading out to work. I know what's waiting for me in the future: polished marble and the late night rush of creation. And even on the nights when they can't attend - when the bar below their house is in need of bartenders, or waiters, or even someone to manage the set list - there's a comfort in the back of their mind.
No matter what twists and turns they're forced down, the end is always in sight.
