The David

It was late, but the gallery was still full of people, women and men alike, in very fine clothes. The women tossed back heads covered in pearls, let long silken dresses tangle around their heels as they walked, and the men, in dark suits, were mainly responsible for holding the arms of their ladies and acting as an accessory to their beauty.

Paintings covered the walls. Sculptures stood at points in each of the hallways like sentries to the next room. Polite chatter moved through the air, hands reaching and pointing out virtues in the artwork they studied, mouths open in a laugh, arms crossed as they examined each piece for meaning.

He stood apart from the others, champagne glass in hand, gazing at a painting which depicted Nobel prize winners and great thinkers gathered together in a cluster, talking. His expression held the faintest bit of disgust.

The artist, and owner of the gallery, swept his way over to the man and offered him a charming smile. “You like it?”

“No,” Micah said.

Ralph thought to be offended, but he wasn’t surprised by the response. “What troubles you about it?”

“You painted them too coldly. They all have the same expression on their faces.” Micah stepped forwards, pointing at a woman with a blue and white sari on her head. “Mother Teresa shouldn’t be scowling.”

“She can’t help that. I put her next to Hemingway.” Ralph kept his smile up, with effort.

“The rest of this is poor as well,” Micah said with cold detachment. “I’ve seen better things from you than this. Why add it to your gallery?”

“At least I have a gallery to speak of,” Ralph said, dropping the smile for a glare. “Where are your projects as of late? I haven’t seen anything of note from you since your Pietà, which we both know isn’t that noteworthy to begin with.”

Micah turned to him, seething. “At least my abilities aren’t limited to painting.”

“I sculpt too.”

“Never anything impressive.”

(They glared at each other. Ralph wouldn’t have been surprised if Micah had punched him, thinking of the other man’s temper. But he doubted even Micah would do so in a gallery, and so when the two turned back around to look at the painting, Ralph felt quite safe.

“For your information, I’ve just begun work on a new sculpture. It’s an exciting piece.” He cast a disdainful look around the gallery. “It’ll be far more exciting than anything in here.”

Ralph ignored the insult and said, coldly,“What is it, then?”

“A statue of David.” Micah elaborated, staring when Ralph looked confused. “Does the Bible ring a bell?”

“I know the Bible, you ass.”

“I’m doing a study on the human form. I want it to be big.” Micah put his hands behind his back, rocking forward and backwards on his feet. “I want it to convey his beauty and the Godlike skill behind his Godlike feats.”

“You and your God,” said Ralph with disdain, shaking his head. “Your last piece was religious as well. When will you employ your talents to things which exist or can be talked about with merit, rather than focusing on the has-been, maybe-been of old stuff? You keep trying to find your God in a pile of rock.”

“What, refocus myself so I can be like you?” Micah sneered. “A young, upstart coward who flees from the Lord our God, choosing to worship nothing but women and paintbrushes?”

“I sculpt too,” Ralph said, gritting his teeth. “Maybe I’ll create my own 'Godlike statue with Godlike abilities' someday as well.”

"How terribly original." Micah glared.

“Anything to anger you,” Ralph answered with cool politeness, and he watched Micah storm out of his gallery with satisfaction. The black cloud had disappeared from his event. He hoped he wouldn’t see it again for a while.

…

A year and a half later

Oliver had been a model for Micah for the better part of a year. He considered himself used to the quirks of the man, quirks he found himself actually enjoying. Underneath his moods and difficulty, Micah had a biting wit and a sense of humor, while Micah’s skills as an artist-- painter, drawer, sculpture-- were completely remarkable. They pinned Olivers body to the paper, adding new lines to him, new softnesses, that he had never appreciated before in his own figure.

It was why he had stuck with Micah for so long. He felt that he knew the man better than anybody by now.

When he came into Micah’s studio to find that a bed and a cabinet of food had been moved inside and against the wall, it was unexpected but also not that much of a surprise. Micah sat on the bed, smoking a cigarette, staring at the half-completed statue towering over everything in the middle of the room.

Micah was short and young, with a scruffy black beard, a nose crooked in the middle and bright, intense eyes that seemed like they could focus on anything at any point, draw the art out of it. They highlighted on him coming through the door, briefly, before they flicked back to the statue.

Oliver walked over to the corner, where a desk and chair made up their drawing studio. “What do you want for today?”

“Charcoal sketches,” Micah said, but he didn’t move from his spot. He just sat there, smoking the cigarette to its end. His clothes looked grimy, his hair unwashed. Oliver waited, stripping out of his shirt and pants.

Micah rasped, “What do you see when you look at David?”

“See?” Oliver looked towards the statue. David’s body by now was formed, but still blocky in certain areas, missing those curves and lines needed to add life to the human body. But Micah was especially good at that sort of thing; he had once confided to Oliver that he had attended dissections with doctors in order to better learn the human body inside and out. “I see a man. A gorgeous man.”

“Look deeper.” Micah tossed his cigarette to the floor without bothering to see where it would land and advanced on his creation, eyes fervent, hands already reaching forwards as if to stroke the marble. “I see a warrior. A boy with a jaunty pose to his hips, a graveness hidden behind his eyes. You can’t tell whether or not he’s faced Goliath already; you can’t see signs of victory in him, but there are no signs of fear either. Either way, he would still be standing in this fashion because it’s exactly who he is: the boy who can look down on death, the potential of death anyway, which is always much more frightening, and allow for his posture to remain relaxed, open, and brave.” Micah gazed into the face of David, so high and imposing above him. “Human.”

Oliver twitched his cheeks to hide his smile. “You speak like you’re God Himself, creating David so perfectly.”

Micah turned to him. “Who says that being God isn’t a state of mind?”

Oliver had no words for that.

Micah came over, tugging a sketchpad and a box of charcoal from under a pile of other papers and dirty dishes. Letting his eyes rove over the rest of the studio, Oliver saw that Micah’s housekeeping, always poor, seemed to have degraded into something out of A Beautiful Mind: papers were wadded up and thrown everywhere, windows open and letting air stream in, high ceilings with spiderwebs hidden at the corners. A few crosses were nailed above the windowsills, rosaries dangling and catching the light in twinkling dots of color. More drawings still were pinned to the walls along with sonnets, bits of lyrics, or poetry Micah had jotted down. And some of the walls, Oliver saw, had been drawn on with markers and pen in long, messy lines like a toddler. The only thing pristine in the cavernous space, despite the tools haphazard at its feet, was the statue.

“I need to do more work on the calves. Pose for me.”

Oliver did, shifting his posture to mimic the statue’s, part of his routine by now. He studied Micah’s face as he sketched, the little furrow between his brows that Oliver sometimes wished he could draw his finger down, the skin so weatherbeaten and tan that small lines had begun to crinkle at the corners of his eyes despite his age. He did, even with the difficulties coming with the person underneath, love Micah’s face. If Micah had been a different person who had ever given any inclination of interest, Oliver would’ve asked him out months ago.

But Micah was intense, with flaws surging forward more often than his virtues and a personality that strongly preferred solitude and art to people. Oliver had watched his eyes rove greedily over his body in their hunt for the shadows and lines that lay on the surface, had shivered as hands touched him even as those hands behaved like he was nothing more than a piece of rock. He wasn’t sure if Micah was capable of being attracted to anybody; loving anybody, certainly not.

Perhaps it would be possible if they were younger, and Micah didn’t have so much to live up to. Perhaps it would be possible if they were younger, and emotions had introduced themselves to Micah sooner than his art did. Perhaps it would be possible if they were younger, and Micah was still good-natured enough to find room in his heart for human affection.

Oliver suspected that Micah’s feelings for others, on the occasions that they did arise, had been forcibly pressed instead into a wonder for the human body without much examination. That they had been transferred into an obsession with what art could convey that ebbed and flowed depending on the weight of his feelings. He supposed he ought to be flattered, then, that his body had become such a powerful muse for Micah. He supposed he ought to be flattered that he had been chosen, amongst dozens of men, to act as the model for such a potent piece from such a remarkable artist.

But instead, more often than not, he found himself resisting the urge in their hours of sessions to reach forward and pull the sketchpad from Micah’s face. Look him in the eye. Ask him, with as much gentleness as possible, what he was trying to escape inside of himself that made him run so hard. Perhaps, Oliver thought, he could become the humanity that was real and tangible and pulled Micah away into a world of soft brown limbs rather than cool white ones.

He knew deep down that that was a future ever so slightly possible if he picked the right moment and the right words.

But he also knew Micah’s eyes would still be pulled towards the statue no matter how hard he tried.

Oliver kept his tone light. “You should try painting me sometime instead of drawing, for once.”

“I don’t paint.”

“How close is it to being done?”

“Not close.” He tore the page out and brought it to his face to examine it.

Oliver tried again, awkwardly. “How’ve you been? Are you seeing anyone?”

Micah blinked at him, mouth grim and unsmiling. “What would I want to see someone for?”

“I don’t know,” Oliver said. “Companionship. Love.”

“I don’t need that.”

“I suppose you don’t,” Oliver agreed. “You should try it sometime, though. You might be surprised.”

Micah snorted, returning to his sketch. “I highly doubt that.”

It was the most Oliver got out of him their entire session.

…

A year later

“I like his hair,” Vittoria said.

“Mrmph,” Micah said.

“You should draw her,” Vittoria said, nodding towards a woman wearing a pink trench coat and high heels marching past their table. “She looks interesting.”

“She’s wearing pink.”

"How discriminatory. I should scold you.”

“You jest, of course,” Micah said wearily.

Vittoria propped her chin in her hand. “I suppose just a little bit. But seriously: put down the sketchbook. This is a special night.”

“Why?”

“I finally got you out of that studio! I haven’t seen you for months!”

Micah shrugged, and came out of his reverie in time to notice that there was a steak in front of him. He dug into it. “I’ve been busy.”

“I know you have.” She sighed and cut her fish up. “How’s it coming along?”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She smiled, all warmth and bright lipstick. “I can’t wait to see it. I’m proud of you.”

They’d been at the restaurant for the last hour, Vittoria trying to coax more than grunts out of him, pretending not to notice the drawings he was doing under the table: swooping lines, light and dark shadows, the curve of a chest and the planes of an aristocratic face.

She’d met Oliver once. She doubted Micah could’ve found a more attractive man to be his model. She suspected that Micah knew that too, deep down.

“That guy’s cute,” she said, watching a guy in a dark blue turtleneck walk past their table.

“Mrmn.”

Very deep down.

“Come on,” Vittoria sighed. “Tell me what else you’ve been working on. I want to hear about more than your statue.”

He frowned, attention caught, and straightened. “There’s nothing but my statue. I haven’t written anything, if that’s what you’re getting at. My focus has been caught like a fish on a hook, and I don’t intend on letting it slip.”

Letting the fish go free you mean, Vittoria thought. Letting the fish have freedom to pursue something other than the hook and death, waiting at the end of it. “There are things more important than your statue.”

“Like what? I have you.”

“Not completely, right now. You have David instead of me.”

“Not forever, not always. I have David for as long as he requires me to bring him to life.” Micah paused, waiting for her to get it. “I know that you see a rock, cracking open like an egg and spitting out something worth a passing glance or a selfie, but I see life. I see bones that have to be built bit by bit, muscles that have to be worked by me. I see a body that needs every second of my time, to ensure that it’s perfectly formed in order to give justice to the image that’s been rotting inside my head.”

Vittoria sighed, took a sip of wine. Her head hurt. “You’re wearing yourself out. You haven’t sent me any writing in ages.”

Micah shrugged. “In a way, I’m still writing. I’m creating something worth millions of words. I’m creating a piece to be analyzed, described, admired. I can see poetry forming on the backs of my eyelids as I sculpt. Words come to mind that I’ve never even said aloud. Art provides an outlet to describe the universe.”

Vittoria wasn’t sure what to say for a moment. She stared at her friend, at his intelligent, curving face. Too intelligent, maybe. She shook her head. “You really do have the brain of a writer.”

“If I do, it’s because you gave it to me.” He smiled. It looked like it hurt. “You’re my closest friend.”

“God, I forgot that you can be sweet sometimes.”

They talked over dinner, with Vittoria pointing out interesting-looking people as they walked past their table and Micah getting into more long rambles about the human body when the opportunity arose. Around seven, she could tell that he was getting antsy. His fingers twitched with the urge to hold a chisel, his eyes darting around as if praying for an accident to happen.

She let out the tiniest of sighs and drained her wine.

“Go.”

He paused. “Really?”

“Yeah. Get out of here and finish the damn thing. Come on. Make it up to me later once you’ve finally finished.” She shooed him away with her hands because he was still hesitating-- she was probably the only person in the world he would hesitate for. “Seriously! Shoo!”

“Thank you,” he said, and then he was gone so quickly the table was left rattling behind him. She steadied it and glanced out the window in time to see him speed-walking down the street.

Vittoria was a writer. She’d written worlds, stories, characters, all contained in scenes that could be scribbled in an instant and moments that would have to be drawn out for eternity. She was sure that if she really tried, she could capture Micah in all his glories and failings, etch him out for a reader to fall in love with.

But they would be falling for a shadow. He was too real to be contained in something as pure and simple as words. He felt his madness so powerfully, felt the ache of artwork inside of him too deeply to ever truly be normal. And she loved him for that, even if it made him exhausting to be around too.

She ordered another glass of wine and spent the rest of the night scribbling love letters to long-lost lovers on her napkin.

…

Six months later

He finished it on a rainy day. The windows were open and water buffeted everything, soaking his clothes, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t sure how he knew it was done; he had just been chiseling at the ankle and something inside of him just whispered, Stop. Obeying the instinct immediately Micah stepped back, dropping the chisel and gazing up at his creation.

David gleamed above him, white and huge and magnificent. He read the curve of the calves, the lines of the stomach, the veins in the arms, the perfectly carved face, and started to tremble. The statue spilled its secrets to him, its emotions and its lack of emotions etched out upon it: he saw his anger at Ralph in the formidable stare and challenging tilt to its hips, Oliver’s perfect body pinned onto every moon-bright surface, the poetry Vittoria sent him echoing in the tiny fine details that made up the piece. He exhaled, and smiled.

“If the devil ever saw you,” he told David, “he would fall down at my feet and repent.”

…

In another gallery not so long after that, a purple curtain hung to the ceiling around its newest piece, concealing its insides with jealousy like a girl holding her clothes to her chest. The gallery owner standing beside it had just finished giving a speech. She smiled and pulled on a yellow rope. “This work is called ‘David’ by Michelangelo, uh…” She glanced at her clipboard. “Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni!”

The room applauded. Micah stood in the front row, sipping on a glass of champagne. He’d declined to stand at the front with Dr. Lee. He preferred to enjoy his creation amongst others.

The curtain fell, and the whole room drew a collective breath. And held it. And held it. And exhaled, marveling, soft, joyous. They surged forwards as a crowd to get a closer look and David stood above them, lean and handsome and massive.

Better than all of them, Micah thought.

One woman pulled out her phone and began taking pictures. Two men whispered together, pointing out the veins in the arms, flickering and thin as snakes. A mother squealed upon the sight of David’s nudity and covered the eyes of her teenage daughter, who batted her away, saying, “Mom, it’s fine…"

It truly was magnificent. The world was going to know it, too. His name would be written down in articles, the statue shown wherever it would get the most attention. He had slaved over a block of marble and discovered life inside of it in a way that no other sculptor could do.

Micah turned away, melted through the crowd, and no one tried to stop him. It was time for his next project.

Maybe he’d paint something.