The Family Group, Dan Geise
The campus was a snowy Venice today, minus the gondoliers to ferry us around. We grudgingly splashed through the great swirling canals that hid the sidewalks. It was raining, of course, and branches were loosening and tipping. They shed their coats in small threads and heavy bolts. The crackling of fireworks signaled earthbound spears that quivered alive on the ground.
When the forest thaws it screams and sighs back to life, but statues simply sleep through it all. The Family Group had spent the night clasped tight, trying in vain to squeeze heat from stone skin and unaware that only Michelangelo could carve a warm embrace from stone.
The Pioneer Mother, Alexander Phimister Proctor <— what a name!
The Pioneer Mother sat with a plump frost baby in her lap. Her loving look was blind to the truth that her miraculous child would soon seep away. For the moment she gazed down at her elemental changeling, as sure as Giotto’s Madonna.
Flying Ducks, Tom Hardy
Hardy’s ducks rise with the thermals on summer days, but in the cold they hung motionless like dark stains or strange hieroglyphics tattooing the wall behind them. What do frostbitten wings feel like?
Then there was Sylvester, still waiting for his magic pebble to return.