Iron Alchemy

Page 12

THE NEXT TIME we went out for a beer after working at the studio, it was late January. I’d been out the entirety of the holiday break. First, I flew to California to see my parents for Christmas. When I got back, Art Iron had a huge Art Nouveau restoration project. I worked on twisting vines and flowers ten hours a day for two weeks straight. I was pleased with the amount of overtime they were willing to pay for the project. I finally got back to the studio and started forming the centerpiece to my exhibit—Venus Rising.

That’s not an unusual theme for sculpture projects. I knew there were at least two bronze castings and a stone sculpture among the final projects for MFAs. Our ideas of the goddess have been shaped by two artworks. First, is Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus” in which the goddess demurely steps from a seashell, covering her important bits with hand and hair. The second is the armless sculpture by Alexandros of Antioch, commonly known as the Venus de Milo, complete with its hard, masculine face.

In my opinion, neither does justice to the beauty or sensuality of the Greek myths. Aphrodite, or Venus, is the goddess of love. In the sculpture, she looks like a shrew at best and a hermaphrodite at worst. She covers her waist in a towel to hide a cock and balls. Okay, that’s my opinion. Botticelli shows a demure, shy, embarrassed woman trying to figure out why she is standing naked in a seashell. Scarcely the image of the goddess who boasts of her beauty and stands naked in front of Paris for his judgment, or who bribes him by offering him the most beautiful woman on earth for his wife. We know how that ended up. No, Venus is the very embodiment of sexuality and feminine wiles. She is the great deceiver of men, manipulating them by their balls. Still, she calls and we go to her willingly.

In my hammered bronze sculpture, Venus arises from the sea like a swimmer breaking the surface. One arm is outstretched above her. One hand pushes at the surface of the water to gain more height. Her head is thrown back, water streaming from her hair. Her breasts are proudly thrust up and forward as she emerges from the waves, shouting for joy.

That’s all in my mind. I know it will be a bust emerging from the water lapping around her. Hair will stream down in abundance and support the sculpture in its upright position. Only the front of the arms will be shown as the back is hollow—as hollow as her words. And there will be no face. Who can know the face of a woman behind the mask she wears?

“Is this the beginning of the masterwork?” she asked as I doused my charcoal. Granted, it didn’t look like much. The piece would be created in pieces that were to be welded together. In places, the hammer marks would be evident as the raw waves from which she emerges. In other places, she will be polished smooth with all trace of the hammer removed. When it comes to her hair, it will be worked with a fine etching tool to highlight every strand. God! She’s beautiful. Like every man before me, I’d lay down my life for her.

“Not much to look at yet,” I said. “This is just the beginning of the water.”

“You’ve been working hard,” she said. “It’s Friday night. How about a beer?”

“You’ve lit the kiln. More porcelain?” I asked as I cleaned up.

“Bisque firing so I can work on the glazes. Like iron, it has to be heated more than once.”

We headed to a little bar on Nicollet that also happened to serve great Italian food. I’d been working over the forge since ten this morning and hadn’t eaten anything.

“Seems like we should have wine tonight,” I said. “May I treat?”

“Well, what do you have in mind?” she said with a raised eyebrow.

“I was thinking of the cheapest Chianti on the menu. And I plan to eat a huge helping of their lasagna.”

“Chianti is only good if it is cheap. You get the high priced and more highly refined Chiantis and you might as well be drinking a California Cab,” she laughed. “I’ll have the cannelloni. Have you ever had it?”

“No. I’ll trade you bites if you agree.”

“Be careful. It’s sounding like a date,” she said. I stopped and looked at her. If it hadn’t been for this fall, I’d definitely have dated her. I changed the subject.

“I didn’t know that about Chianti and California Cabs. All this time I thought I liked it because it was cheap.”

“In this instance, your barbaric tastes prove refined.”

We drank our wine and talked about our projects. Over the break, Celia had a pottery show in St. Cloud. Some holiday festival and she sold a lot of mugs. Most had a rendition of Santa on them. I told her about the Art Nouveau project I’d worked on.

“That must be for the restoration of the Palladium,” she said. “It’s a shame that all that beautiful metalwork is just going to decorate a chichi shopping mall.”

“Is that what they’re doing with it? Too bad. It is some beautiful work, but it’s craftwork, not art. Most of the original work was stamped out. There was more art in the restoration than the original.”

“And what’s the difference between art and craft?” she asked. “Don’t you think we are too quick to judge what is art? I know I scoffed at the idea that blacksmithing was an art form. And I’ll bet you felt the same way about my ceramics.”

“I confess to a modicum of truth in that statement. We weren’t showing our best side at the festival.”

“I certainly wasn’t.” She lowered her eyes and cut one of the cannelloni in half to put more on my plate. I think I’d already eaten half of her meal. Cannelloni was rising to the top of my favorite foods list.

“Neither was I,” I confessed. “I certainly wouldn’t have done some of the things I did if I had been.”

“Leslie and her boyfriend broke up,” Celia said flatly.

“I’m sorry to hear that. They appeared to be very much in love. Of course, appearances can be deceiving,” I said. Just a little snide, I admit.

“She asked me to tell you she was available if you’d like to get together.”

“I think not. I wouldn’t trust myself.”

“It’s her you don’t trust, isn’t it?”

“She deceived me and cheated on her boyfriend. Exactly where would trust enter into it?”

“If she had told you she had a boyfriend would you have made love to her anyway?” Celia asked.

“No. I’m not that kind of guy. I really thought we had built something during the five weeks we were working together. I wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t think she felt… something.”

“And then if she came to you and said she’d broken up… Would you have seen her then?”

“Probably,” I said. “Yeah. Definitely. I won’t lie to you and say I was in love with her when we went to bed, but I saw long term potential there. If we could have rebuilt what we had at the festival, I would have jumped at the chance. More the fool, me.”

“And me,” she sighed.

“Celia, don’t take it personally. I’ve forgiven you for your part in it and ask you to forgive me for mine,” I sighed. “I realized that you and I didn’t work together for ten hours a day. The only part of the show we really shared was dinner and wine. I’m sure you got most of your impression of me from my one-night fling with the Princess and whatever Leslie told you. I don’t hold it against you.”

“Thank you. But you still hate women, don’t you?”

“Hate is probably too strong a word. Trust? Just not ready to put it on the line for a woman.”

The next three months were intense. This art takes time. I’ve seen artists who could fling paint at a canvas and have a masterpiece in hours. But heating and hammering, heating and hammering—that takes time. So does shaping, drying, firing, glazing, and firing. Nerves were frayed by the end of April. Some students who were behind were rushing their projects and we had a rare visit by the advising staff to the warehouse when most of us were there. They warned us that we were in a critical phase of our work and that we should continue to work with care and deliberation. They would not remove our studio setups if we didn’t meet the all-school exhibition schedule.

It was a relief. These guys understood art, even if they were teachers.

But then I found out the Art Iron project had a phase two and they wanted me to restore a bunch more pieces for the Palladium, which was now properly being called the Palladium Mall. It included creating a couple new pieces as well. I was out for two weeks earning beaucoup bucks, but it wasn’t helping my project.

I got to the studio early Monday morning and found Celia in a heap in front of the kiln. She was crying. I rushed to her.

“What is it? Celia, are you all right? Are you hurt?” I said. I put an arm around her and she collapsed against me.

“It exploded. It’s ruined. My centerpiece is ruined.”

“Oh, my god!” I looked in through the open door of the kiln and saw hundreds of shards of pottery scattered around the inside. “I’m so sorry, Celia. That’s so terrible.”

“I don’t know if I messed up the settings on the kiln or if someone changed them. It was supposed to be a bisque firing and was way too hot. You can’t fire moist clay at twenty-two hundred.” That wasn’t the kind of mistake you’d expect an artist of Celia’s level to make. I was shocked at the implication and my eyes automatically went to where my bust had stood for two weeks while I was working. Everything seemed okay, but I would be locking down the front of my wagon from here on out.

“Is there anything in the kiln that is usable?” I asked. She shook her head. “Let’s clean it out and leave for the day, then. I’ve been gone two weeks. Another day won’t put me any further behind.”

We worked together to clean up the mess and then both made sure our work stations were secure and no artwork was where it could be damaged. Then I held her hand and led her to my truck.

“Where are we going?”

“Just for a drive. I’ll show you a couple cool things I’ve found and treat you to lunch. Did you know my ancestors were from around here?” I asked.

I just wanted to distract her from the problem she had and the only thing I could think of was to show her where my family had worked as blacksmiths. She was amazed at the site on Marquette that’s now occupied by what was the Federal Reserve Bank. Then we drove to Stillwater and I showed her the site where he’d moved his shop. We ended with dinner in Hudson, Wisconsin and I drove her home. On the way home, she sat in the middle seat of the truck and held my arm as I drove. She seemed to be studying it as much as holding it for comfort or security.

I walked her to her door and she hugged me. Then looking up into my face she gave me a light kiss and went inside, thanking me for getting her through the day.

It was while I was getting ready for bed that night, thinking of the light touch of her lips on mine, that the answer to her question came to me. I wondered if she’d even remember asking it over three months ago. “And what’s the difference between art and craft?” she’d asked.

Except a forge, I used the same materials and tools at my job at Art Iron as I used to create my art in the studio. I was using a plasma cutter to finely cut individual strands of hair in my sculpture. The same as I used one to cut a grille for a security gate. I welded pieces together the same as I welded iron rods in place for the elevator gates. I even used the exact same skills.

Celia used the same clay, firing process, and glazes for coffee mugs as she used for her artwork. But losing an entire kiln full of mugs would not have affected her the way losing her project today had. It wasn’t the skill, the material, or the tools. It was what the artist put into the artwork. The soul.

Venus was shaping up nicely. In fact, caressing her shape affected me. How can you get turned on by your own artwork? Yet, as I ran my hand over the smooth round breasts and flat stomach to where it would join with the waves, I couldn’t help but wish I had a woman as beautiful as this beneath my fingertips.

There was just one detail left and I got hard thinking about it. She needed nipples. I’d worked on a mill at Art Iron to get the exact shape and size. A steel punch. Usually this kind of work was done by a machinist, but we had the necessary equipment. I ran my finger over the surface and the die. I lined the bowl that I would use on the anvil with pitch and heated the bust. Anyone who grabbed that boob at 800° F would regret it. Maybe that’s what women needed to prevent unwanted advances. I seated the bust in the bowl and positioned the punch.

“No! Stop, Grant! Please, stop!” I didn’t hear it too well, but enough that I glanced up to see Celia practically flying across the studio. I had the hammer back and could still make the impression if I struck, but she looked so frantic. Damn it! I pulled the bust out of the mold and cooled it in the water bucket. It didn’t do to ever leave hot metal on the anvil while you were distracted.

“What is it?” I snapped. I’d have to go through the whole process over again. I pulled my ear protectors off.

“Please don’t do that,” she panted. “It’s wrong. It’s not… It doesn’t… It’s just wrong.”

“Miss Potter,” I spat with an emphasis on her profession. “What makes you think you know what is right and wrong about metalwork?”

“I…” she calmed down a little and there was pleading in her eyes that I’d never seen before. The passion. The soul of the artwork. “Grant, I know it’s difficult, but can you trust me? For ten minutes?” I looked around the studio. Apparently, we were the only ones there. I didn’t even know when Celia had shown up. I thought I was alone. Oh well. Today’s work was ruined anyway. I was in the wrong space to create what I wanted.

“Okay. Ten minutes. Then I’m going home and getting drunk. What is it?” I was still snappish. Over the past few weeks, we’d developed a good friendship. Ever since I drove her around after the kiln disaster.

“Take off your gloves and apron. I want to blindfold you.” She was wearing a scarf and removed it as I took off the gloves and peeled off the silk liners beneath. “So, that’s the secret of your soft hands,” she said, looking at the silk gloves I wore inside the welding gloves.

“That and butter,” I said.

“What?”

“My grandfather taught me that milkfat was the easiest way to keep my hands from turning to leather. Said that’s why dairy farmers always had soft hands back in the day when they milked by hand.”

“You’re full of surprises. Now just get this on and relax. I won’t hurt you. Stand right here. Give me a second. Okay.”

She positioned me and scuffled around, took my hand, and then pulled it toward her. I felt skin beneath my fingertips. Her left arm was raised above her head and she guided my hand down to her shoulder and on down to her chest. My hand glided over her bare breast. My god! She was topless and was guiding my hand in touching her. I could feel the small point of her nipple in the palm of my hand and then between my fingers as she drew it farther onto her stomach until I touched the waistband of her jeans. She pulled my hand back to her arm and started the path down again. I was less startled this time and began to absorb the textures and shapes beneath my fingers. When I reached her waist again, she brought my fingers back to her shoulder and then let me find my own way down her torso. I explored much more thoroughly. And when I reached her nipple, I bent my head and took it between my lips. She sighed.

Could this have been it? Was my subconscious playing tricks on me? Had I really hammered a bronze bust patterned after the woman whose flesh was in my mouth and in my hands?

I continued my blindfolded exploration down her body and this time found no blue jeans at her waist. My fingers wandered down into her pubic hair and into the moist folds of her sex. I continued to suckle on her taut nipple as my fingers explored her folds. Her nipple was smaller than I imagined. Longer. I could feel the outline of her areola with my tongue. No wonder she had stopped me. I had nearly ruined it.

“How did you know?” I asked as I kissed up her chest and onto her neck and chin.

“I know my own body,” she whispered. I kissed her. It was the first time other than a peck on the cheek or the one light kiss the night I drove her around my family sites that we had kissed. Her lips were soft and welcomed mine. As I explored the wet folds of her sex, she opened to me fully. Our tongues danced together and I felt her hands at my belt.

“Grant,” she whispered.

“Yes, Celia. Yes.”

“This isn’t for one night. Please tell me. This isn’t for one night.”

“Yes, Celia. This is for as long as you will have me.”

“Then love me, Grant Smith. Love my body and my mind.”

“May I look at you, now, Celia? I need to see your eyes,” I whispered as she freed my cock. Her hands moved up and released the blindfold. The depth of her coal black eyes drew me and I saw reflected a man starved for love and hopeful for the future.

“I am yours, Grant. I will always be yours.”

She leaned back against my worktable and guided my cock to her entrance. She stared into my eyes as I pushed forward and we kissed again.

I fell in love.

That is not true. I realized I had been in love from the moment I heard her voice at the fair. “Oh, my god! What is that horrid stench?” I knew I would hear this voice forever.

Celia was in my arms that night in my apartment. She was in my arms when I awoke. She was in my arms when we kissed goodnight again. My life had changed. I was no longer alone.

Of course, that didn’t mean we were suddenly excused from life. I still had to work at Art Iron. We both still had to finish our exhibitions. We worked hard and I helped her move her things into my apartment. I’d never seen so much pottery!

I did the final cutting and welding of my centerpiece. In a whispered conversation late at night, we decided to hold a joint exhibition. Our advisors agreed. The big day finally came and we began our installation. I set up Venus Rising on a table in the center of the space and was surprised when Celia rolled a cart up next to the same table.

“Are we going to share the centerpiece?” I asked.

“Don’t you think that’s appropriate? We were each other’s models.”

“We were… I was what?”

“Did you think I was any more immune to molding you than you were to me?” she asked. “Help me lift this. It is a little heavier than my other pieces.” She had been very secretive about her centerpiece after the explosion in the kiln. She kept everything locked up and when it came time to fire it she slipped into the studio late at night and stayed with the work for three days. Each time. It had to be fired for the bisque, and for the glaze, and finally the vitrification. When she unveiled the piece I saw it was a torso of a man. By the shape of the arms, I could tell it was me.

I lifted it onto the table and Celia began moving it around.

“Are we putting them right up tight together?” I asked.

“I hope so. I like it when we’re tight together. I like it when you hold me in your arms. I like it when the steel is clay and the porcelain is bronze.” I braced my Venus and she slid the porcelain into place. The arm wrapped around the back of the goddess. The right hand was raised and cupped the left breast of my goddess. The figure bent forward slightly and barely touched the other breast, the non-existent faces caught in an invisible kiss. It was a perfect fit.

“What is the title?” I asked.

“Vulcan, of course,” she said. She turned to kiss me and I melted in her arms.

Vulcan. The god of fire and volcanos. The god of metalworking and the forge.

The god of heat.

The husband of Venus.

The End

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