‘The Perfection of Galatea’

‘Anything assembled can be disassembled. A vessel has no worth until filled.’ Pygmalion recites these words as he saws off my arm. It’s my right arm, which isn’t my favorite. I like my left arm best; there is a cluster of birthmarks there that resemble a crab—if I squint, they do. I hope he doesn’t cut that arm off, too. Given his disposition, it’s probably just a matter of time.

I was once whole, carved from a single piece of quartz, shocked through with mottled bits of red and green jasper. Another artist might have used marble or ivory to make me. That’s the genius of Pygmalion: he turned the imperfections within the speckled slab into perfection, connecting dots of pinprick brilliance until they became a constellation.

I don’t remember coming to life. Pygmalion says it happened because he loves me so much. I have learned that love is a chisel.

Pygmalion throws my detached arm into the rubbish heap. We won’t be needing that piece of me anymore. He clamps the end of a new arm to my vacated shoulder and screws it in. Each turn of the screw is a particular pain that is more than physical, somehow. I don’t quite understand it. I am human-ish, but not entirely human. I suppose I am both what I was—a collection of parts—and what I have become.

‘This is bronze,’ he explains. ‘It’s better than what you had. You’ll be perfect now.’

He called me perfect when I first came to life. I’m not sure when or why my perfection waned. But he helps me become re-perfected when needed. I am a human palimpsest, continually erased and re-written by his conceptions. The period between each perfection seems to get shorter and shorter, but I attribute that to his continually growing expertise.

‘There, that wasn’t so bad.’ Pygmalion strokes my cheek. He can be amazingly gentle, childlike, sometimes, in his awe of me. I like him best when he is awed.

‘No. Not so bad,’ I echo. I flex my new arm, watching the light play against its surface and refract as if a beacon. Besides my bronze arm, my stone pieces have been replaced by a sapphiric ear, wooden leg—maybe cypress?—and clay hip. When I ask Pygmalion why the changes are necessary, especially when the materials don’t match, he usually says that it is an effort to obtain not merely surface-level beauty, but architectonic harmony.

‘Are you going to work in the studio?’ I ask. Pygmalion goes through periods of intense activity and desolated languidity. When he is active, I typically have more freedom to explore the lands around our home and indulge my fancies.

‘I thought you might join me today.’

That surprises me. ‘As a model?’ I wonder if he will try to create another version of me. If he does, would it come to life, too? I don’t think I would like that.

He shakes his head. ‘As a sculptor.’

#

At night, Pygmalion sleeps, and I wander. I stroll along the beach, barefoot, my feet sinking into the sand, tickled by each distinct particle they touch. Water laps against the beach to the rhythm of a pelagic heartbeat.

I actually enjoyed the act of creating. I don’t have the aptitude for it that Pygmalion does, but he is a patient teacher. With his guidance, my work will get better and better.

He seemed to find my work entrancing. The whole time I sculpted, he took furious notes, muttering things about the aesthetic significance of art becoming artist.

‘This will answer so many questions,’ he said when we were done, our aprons splattered with half-dried clay and improperly mixed pigments—I added too much cinnabar to the red, but will correct that next time. I was glad to see him so happy, and grateful for the gift of creation.

I settle into the sand, cross-legged, and watch the hermit crabs scuttle along the shoreline. I admire the hermit crabs, who carry their homes upon their backs. One stops mere inches from me, its stalked eyes, swiveling to scan the beach for danger. It relaxes, apparently convinced that I am no danger to anyone. Its shell splits in two, falling from its back like a discarded cocoon. This happens sometimes. The hermit crab is too big for its container and the buildup of pressure breaks it.

The crab has ten legs, two of which are normally used to hold its shell in place. Those two legs wiggle in confusion, as though unsure what to do without the weight they normally bear.

The crab wheels around and starts eating its former shell. I understand why.

#

I have taken notes on perfection. Appearance is part of it, but not all. Function is essential. My functions for Pygmalion are thought companion, muse, and sexual partner. Once, I made the mistake of referring to myself as a sexual object, which he did not like. He told me not to say it again, that the words stuck to him like mud.

Thanks to Pygmalion’s modifications, I have had large breasts, small breasts, no breasts, female genitalia, male genitalia, both male and female genitalia at the same time, and a rather confusing stint of conjoinment with so many varied parts that I did not know what I was at all. There is a particular brand of art that revels in not being sure what it is at all. I would prefer not to be that sort of art.

Presently, I wear a female form similar to my original. Invariably, Pygmalion returns to this form because it was the first perfection, if not a lasting one.

Pygmalion sits in his studio. Light streams in from the window above him. He extols the virtues of natural light when creating. I agree. Pygmalion is hunched over a new project, his back to me. His shadow bends outward like a crooked finger, beckoning me forward. In a way, I am his shadow, too, an extension of his self. He made me and is making me, those actions stamping ownership on me more indelibly than the signature he carved at the base of my neck when I was first sculpted.

I walk to a nearby shelf and run a finger over the labels that are stamped there, silently reciting each named thing. Ball clay, bentonite, feldspar, mica, silica. Alone, they are unremarkable. Combined, they become true form.

I take the appropriate proportions and mix my clay. Pygmalion says an artist should be immersed and conversant in every aspect of the creative process. An artist mixes their own paint; otherwise, another had a hand in the creation of the end product.

I find this an odd conceit. Is there ever a way to be fully disconnected from others in one’s art? After all, someone may have influenced the direction of a river which deposited the stone I use. Are they then not a part of the end result?

Regardless, I follow Pygmalion’s advice. He is the expert.

I take my mixture and form an image. I used to try and make animals: swans, lions, or crustaceans—something about the multifaceted nature of their shells captivates me. But now I am simply trying to make a circle.

I form a tube like the body of a snake, and meet the ends together, an ouroboros of exactitude. I study it from every angle, reveling in its flawlessness. This might be the one.

There’s a hand on my shoulder; the tenderness of the touch fills me with warmth. ‘That’s good,’ Pygmalion says. ‘I learn so much by watching you.’

I hold the praise close. To make something precious, you need only make it scarce.

Even from behind, I can feel his eyes flicker over my body. It takes him a while to find a flaw. But he is dedicated to searching until one is revealed. ‘Your arm needs to go,’ he says finally.

‘Agreed.’ I flex my right arm. It’s iron now, which I despise. Iron is for swords and soulless machines. I am neither. It will be a relief to be rid of it.

‘Not that one.’

#

I take several empty shells to the beach, where the hermit crabs like to gather. I place three near one who is about to molt. It scampers forward, inspecting the shells.

I inch the central shell closer to the creature. It’s the best of the three, spiraling out enough to provide adequate protection without imposing undue weight. The hermit crab ignores my offering; instead, discarding his old shell and slipping into a new one. That irritates me. I have a good eye for shells: their composition, durability, spaciousness. But the hermit crab scuttles away, ambivalent to my expertise; happy.

#

Pygmalion is old. I don’t recall it happening, just that one day it happened. He shuffles around his studio, back bent, fearing a fall. His face is parchment like, lined and crinkled and pallid. His failures are his obsession, and he spends more time nurturing defeat than striving for victory. ‘To think of all the things we didn’t learn,’ he moans. When he says we instead of I, it is almost always to highlight a fault.

‘What did you think you would learn?’ I ask, but I don’t understand his answers. I don’t know what he wants or needs, his mind and voice disconnected more often than not.

He lets out a ragged cough and slinks to his bedroom. He is only able to work for a few hours each day.

I look at my shelf, filled with sculptures. Many are of mollusks or empty shells. I would protect Pygmalion, if I could, crafting a shell around him that even age could not penetrate. But I should not seek to keep him the same or even as he was; that is stagnation. Instead, I must seek better things for him.

#

At night, I slip into his bedroom, thoughts of perfection and permanence and love swirling within me, more intense than the ocean’s movements during a storm. I spent years trying to puzzle through Pygmalion’s need to change me—even, at times, finding it to be a folly—but now I understand.

I take in my lover’s frail form, breaths coming heavy from beneath the covers. All I want is to make him better.

I reach into my bag and pull out a hammer and chisel. I will start with his face, chiseling away the unsightly wrinkles that have gathered there. Later, I’ll need to get the hacksaw.

I set to work, enacting love upon my creator, giving him the gift of my perfection.