Thursday, September 23, 2021

Statue of Limitations (Part One of Three Parts) blog post #516

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Hope you liked “Jean or Gene,” but I don’t know. Didn’t get many comments. Lots of hits, but not many comments. Last time I checked the traffic report, readers from Indonesia outnumbered all others. UAS readers were third down the list.’’

 At any rate, here’s the next selection. Hope you enjoy it.


                                 STATUE OF LIMITATIONS

No, it’s not a typo. I’m a sculptor, not a lawyer. It is statue of limitations. What do I mean? We’ll come to that, but first a little background. To my mind, I’m a fair, decent human being who does his best to get along with the world. Of course, I might be somewhat prejudiced, all things being equal.

At any rate, all I’ve ever wanted to be was a sculptor. When I was a kid, the family went on a vacation to Italy. I can remember to this day standing slack-jawed in front of Michelangelo’s statue of David in Florence. I’d been entering puberty, so naturally, I was titillated by the casual presentation of the male penis and attendant equipment. But I got over that quickly and took in the marvelous detail of the sculpture. The muscles, the veins, the… everything. Right on the spot I decided I wanted to find and model my own David. And to do that, I would need to work hard. And the first hard work I had to do was disabuse my father of the fantasy that I’d follow in his footsteps and become a medical doctor.

“Martin,” he would say, “you’ll make a fine doctor someday.”

“But, dad—”

“No buts, son. It’s in your blood. I know it is.”

We had that exchange at least monthly.

I brought home several souvenirs from that trip to Italy, but the only one that counted was a twelve-inch reproduction of that statue. It went on the corner of the desk in my room and stayed there through countless snickers of friends and acquaintances and a few blushes from the fairer sex who happened to venture into my bedroom. As soon as we got back home to Albuquerque, I went to the hobby shop and spent some of my savings on a tub of modeling clay, after which, I spent many a late hour trying to reproduce that striking image. My first effort almost discouraged me and drove me back into my father’s professional arms. But I kept at it night after night, year after year until by my senior year in high school, I could make a decent statue.

I have to pause at this juncture to admit to another effect David had on me. I’d run my hands over every inch of the Michaelangelo replica about a million times, trying to get the feel of how that master sculptor did this or handled that. And I always got a squirrely feeling when I fingered the genitalia. At times, it seemed to me that I caressed it. Occasionally, I’d go to bed in a semi-excited state and the real David—at least the one represented by the statue in Florence—visited me in my dreams. He let me run my hands over him the way I did the replica, but it quickly became a different sort of exploration. Vaguely aware that wasn’t exactly “normal,” I acquired a statuette of Venus, but it wasn’t the same. I got nothing out of that one, and she visited my dreams not once… not even to chase David.

Well, with my growing awareness of life, that told me something. It told me why I’d rather spend time with my buddies—all guys, of course—than with girls, long after those same guys had abandoned me for female company. Except for one guy. Randy. I came to understand in our last year of high school that he’d prefer to study David than Venus. We even experimented in my room a couple of times, and while it was pleasant—even exciting—Randy was not my David.

My father acquiesced to my wishes and paid for a fine arts degree at UNM. All during my four years at the university, I searched for my David, but only found wannabees. I did models of some hunky guys, even took liberties with them occasionally. Pleasant, but not earthshaking. By the time I graduated, I almost despaired of ever finding my ideal, but perhaps when I went out on my own, I’d move in different circles, and who knows?

After graduation, I located a commodious three-car garage on the grounds of an estate not far from my family’s ranch style house. The big, swinging doors were perfect for moving big blocks of stone in and the finished product out. I struck a deal, rented the place as my studio, and started to work.

Two more years passed without a resolution of my ambition. I got good at my craft and produced lots of pieces, including some statues of handsome young men, a couple of them nudes. I was proud of every piece I produced, but felt my resolve to find “the one” fading.

And then—serendipitously—he arrived on my doorstep… or garagestep, to be more accurate.


Will wonders never cease? Martin’s own David. Or is it? Stay tuned.

 Tell me what you think.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

 Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

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Twitter: @dontravis3


See you next Thursday.


 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

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