See, I don't usually do this. I don't buy stuff without any practical use. I don't - didn't - see the point of owning things just for the things themselves. I scoff at art as equally pretentious as it is honest, and whatever admiration I have for it rarely shows through my thick walls and carefully crafter layers of cynism and the glares I perfected to a T.
But the first time I saw this sculpture in a photo, all I could do was to think how beautiful he was.
Not about how I wanted him (and I did!), or the materials used, or how it is another useless and pricey thing to boost a franchise. My only thought was that he was perfection, plain and simple. There are so many sculptures like this, but this one made me feel awe.
Now that I have one of my own, he makes me happy.
So happy. Just glancing at the figure sitting on my nightstand during a busy day calms me down, and I am still awed - at the craft, the colors, at how something so flimsy and impractical can hold so much sheer beauty.
Art can be weaponized. Art can be made political. But this tiny sculpture has no agenda. It was crafted over months of planning, simply to be a beautiful homage to a set of complex stories. To brigthen its owner's day.
It makes me wonder. If I commit to a creation, can I craft something extraordinary like this? All I know is sarcasm and how to hide from the world when logic fails me and I feel like crying; I've never felt less qualified to do the job, to pull the others in, make them simply feel through my writing (because, after all, writing is what I do the best). How do you even channel the intention? How to endure? How to not be scared of laying oneself bare?
If I ever pour my blood and soul into an artwork (a myriad or words that come so much more easily than charcoal strokes), can I touch someone's heart the way this sculpt touches mine?