Thursday, July 30, 2009

8:10 PM, RIJKSMUSEUM, AMSTERDAM

The Model for the Tomb of Maarten Harpertsz Tromp sat quietly. Its rich maple wood frame dried atom by atom in the slightly incorrect humidity of the storage room. The reclining figure, at the bottom of the central terracotta plate, looked to be sleeping, lying comfortably on a bed of pine. Above him floated aging cherubs, singing and playing the trumpet in a timeless celebration of a spirit raised to the heavens. But the sculpture was mundane, left on earth, made of earthly materials and once carried by living hands. It sat quietly, undisturbed in the darkened room, surrounded by other pieces of wood, cloth, plaster and stone. Each had a different shape, many were from wildly different times. Somehow, the Model felt the presence of these others, the displaced atmosphere around them, the molecular particles that would be described as “smell” if the Model were human and had the sensory instruments to detect them. Instead, they were more of an infinitely delicate tactile sensation, as these stray particles and air molecules caromed off of its wooden edges and terracotta face, slowly etching away the features of the original artist, replacing those features with a smoother, more rhythmic carving of their own. The Model could feel the most pressure upon the cherubs’ noses. Centuries from now, the movements and chemical interactions of the atmosphere would alter its fine cherubs in ways a human might detect. Just then, it felt a light upon its face, and a vibration through the ground. It could not see the old man shuffling into the room, carrying a large vase from a collection of chinese burial decorations, but it felt the steps leading toward it. A much stronger pressure, the texture of hardened boot leather, shattered the terracotta plate in its center, splintered the pine plank that held the sleeping man, and broke he and his guardian cherubs into over a dozen pieces. The delicately carved crown of king and queen in its center were separated, and the highest cherub’s face shattered beyond repair. The maple frame splintered badly as the old man stumbled to right himself, barely holding onto the large chinese pottery that had obscured his vision. The pieces of the Model did not hear the gentle curse on the old man’s breath, or see him set the vase down on beside its own shattered remains and look sadly at his accidental destruction. The cherubs faced downward from their fall, and many of their noses were crushed to powder by the stone floor of the storeroom. They would not require centuries of air molecules to wear down, nor would any human see the subtle carvings made upon them by the elements. The contiguous sentience of the model, if that is what one calls the feelings of a sculpture, faded away, replaced by individual and separate identities that called themselves “pieces”.