rodin

i was disappointed to find out that a caryatid is not some mythical greek hero or beautiful monster charged with the responsibility of protecting the springtime or waking up the sun. the caryatid is nothing independent of her context: she stands straight and sturdy, providing architectural support in place of a pillar.

the caryatid in rodin's garden is lissome and tragic. she sits folded over herself, her eyes nowhere near you, and holds a slab of stone on her shoulder. she is like atlas or sisyphus but with no task, supporting no greater structure. i couldn't tell if she was being created from this stone, or it she was unable to be complete without it. the stone women up on rue d'abbeville writhe in pure pleasure on the gray wall above the door of number 31, or 35, breasts swollen over their draping gowns. they have nothing to do. i go and visit them every once in a while.

the marble sculptures in rodin's atelier become nearly translucent in the light of the late afternoon. the sun was setting behind La Main du Dieu, illuminating the woman's body, cupped in God's hand and jutting out of the unfinished milky stone. she glowed like an earlobe or eyelids closed to the sun.