When they knocked and carved in the studio to release the most poetic cells of emotional feeling, I couldn't help recalling those moments in the studio. After a long and dark self-exploration, thinking, and feeling, the light that I see, grasp it, write it down excitedly, explore again, and explore again. . . And then began to get hands covered with plaster, mud, water, water and plaster and mud, the kind that is luscious and wet, as defined in the civilized world, not clean, dirty with mud and plaster (which Camilla and Rodin's mother loathed) ), the pureness of the skin, the pleasure of entering the soul; the dust of various materials breathed in; the dizzying smell; the wounds caused by the constant high-frequency friction of tools and delicate skin, especially those in the heart With slow thoughts, like those stream-of-consciousness writers, it seems that the embankment has burst and cannot be stopped, the heart is beating wildly, the pupils are dilated, the blood is warm and sweet, it must be leaked on the paper, under the hand; The rough shell can't wait, it feels like centuries after a few hours, smash the shell of the "little man in the stone", and take out the "little man", fast, slow, delicate , A long grinding, delicate, forgetting time, it will never have an end. . .
But at that moment, it was as calm as water, like the whole world fell asleep, and at that moment, I was also calm and expressionless, and put down the sandpaper cotton cloth. Take a shower, wash away the dust. When I wake up again, in the sunlight, I look at myself using my hands, using the time that will never return, and when I create a whole that is surging but unknown, and has never been seen in this world, the tears are like this. just come down. Consciousness has been transmitted into this whole, shaped by powerful emotions, and the viewer, the viewer on the same frequency, will read and perceive a great deal of information in it. But that doesn't matter anymore.
Thoughtful and simultaneously practicing sculptors, the shared secret is, in the process, the surging surging that no one knows and cannot share, the thrill of the physical wound opening in the beating, the plaster of clay and other materials, The dirty, warm, moist pleasure that came from the skin, that kind of too powerful emotion. This emotion, I would say, is too destructive, but there must be destruction before rebirth, isn't it. But those, enough to contain those emotions, is also a "good" way out in terms of social standards. I think this is the choice of most of us.
Not a lot of Camilla's choice though. These people are too romantic and need too much love.
View more about Camille Claudel reviews
