Michaelangelo and the Crayon.

Did Michaelangelo ever get marble block? Block, not the plural form.

I stare at the pictures of the Pieta and wonder what rough drafts look like for something that big and that precise. The time is one thing, but to be so sure and so persistent that you worked a stone into an image so iconic your name rippled through the pond generations later.

Isn’t that the dream? To look at nothing and see the artwork? To know where you’re ending even though the path is formless and the destination is only something you can see?

My wife catches me watching our son in his room. She creeps up quietly, returning my smile, and wraps her arm around my waist as she looks in.

He’s painting dinosaurs with her nail polish on the wall. Starting at one corner he’s filled half of the wall under the window, empty glass bottles discarded underneath him, as he works diligently.

She turns to me, appalled.

“How long have you been watching?”

“Half an hour.”


“I’m respecting the process”

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