My apogee as a professional, in a cold room, I make a living from stone and chisel. Sculpture is a game of muscular geometry, decorative embellishments; figures standing in positions of great meaning. Cold and heavy gestures made from bracing, heavy blocks. Disembodied arms, legs, pensive faces all white and waiting for their place. Splitting, fracturing and dividing rock into limb, then making repair of the parts into a single subject. Building beautiful Frankenstein’s that reveal nothing of their creator. Masculine giants with beards, boys poised like David. I’ve been asked before, begged and bribed really, to craft women. I refuse time again. Though my workshop is filled with busts engraved with her face, carvings of her arms, the utmost detail put into her soft hands and gestures, they don’t breathe. The stone is hard, inhuman, and I can’t put her back together again. Even if I did she wouldn’t live.