It is not unusual to see an artist on the streets of Manhattan. Usually I take notice but pass on by. This time I couldn't help but stop. Maybe it was curiosity about the art. It was not like anything I had ever seen. I'm just as convinced that I was captured by the artist himself. I just stopped and watched. Sitting on the sidewalk, I began to wonder about the broken shards that lay all around this work. He would pick one up, hold it in his hands and breathe on it...like he was warming it with his breath. He would do that with each piece, from the large and jagged ones to the tiniest Pieces that were so small they were like powder in his hand. His project slowly started to take shape, though I couldn’t exactly make out what shape exactly. He didn’t use any glue or nails. He just seemed to know where the broken pieces went and fit them in accordingly.
Then I noticed his hands.
It was when he wiped the sweat from his forehead, pushing the hair back from his eyes. You would expect an industrial artist to have rough hands, but these were horribly scared. These scars, from old wounds that were obviously opened time and time again, momentarily distracted me as I pondered what could have caused such disfigurement. How could these hands even move much less do the delicate detail work I was watching?
Did anyone else see this? The street was filled with executives, vagrants, families, and tourists. It seemed like the entire city was passing by and I was the only one noticing this man at his work.
I thought about it for what only seemed like a moment - but I must have been distracted for longer than I thought for then I noticed him picking up the final piece. He lingered with this one. Breathed on it and smiled. His eyes glistened as he put the piece in place. It fit perfectly. Obviously this was come kind of puzzle that he has put together before. Was this a performance and not really art? When one sees something this masterful it’s easy to doubt. It makes one feel more in control of the universe.
There were some cracks left over - I assume from parts too pulverized to really redeem. Obviously this is an old prop and this performance has been done a few times. Again…I began feeling a level of balance returning to me.
Until he rolled up his sleeves.
Until he rolled up his sleeves.
The sculpture, though flawless in it’s construction, was hard and jagged. My stomach cringed as he began to run his scared hands over the surface. The spaces where the cracks were showing were sharp and as his hands passed over them the mystery of the wounds was solved. Each pass drew blood that fell into the cracks. He winced in pain, but kept on going. I asked myself why in heaven’s name would anyone do this to himself. Is he crazy? Is he trying to make some kind of point? If he is it seems wasted since I’m the only one watching.
Then I noticed one final “miracle’. As he shared himself, the cracks seemed to heal. In fact the entire surface seemed to soften - turning from stone to what looked like flesh. As it did it began to relax in his hand.
I also felt myself begin to weep. I think I was beginning to understand what what happening. I was so blind to it before. I guess I’ve been blind all along.
It was then that we met eyes. It didn’t take any words for me to know that he knew me. I got up from the sidewalk and approached him as he reached out and handed me…
…my heart.
