The Sculptor by the Seashore

The Sculptor by the Seashore

(In honor of the unity of the Filipinos that took the world by surprise in the 5th of August, 2009, a very historic date for Philippine history – and a testament to the capability of the Filipino to become great once they sustain this unity under the cause of the greater good)

Once upon a time, beside a roaring sea lived a famous sculptor who was of such fame that everyone honored him whenever he made new artwork. His skill is so revered by everyone especially children, yet he maintained a gentle, humble demeanor, which is very much atypical of most artists who are cynical and absorbed in their own bubbles because of a mindset that they see and know everything – yet are actually blind because of their close-mindedness and refusal to listen, disguised as ‘an omniscient understanding that has no need of any new idea or contradiction.’ And he had a time limit – within five days young children would go to his place and marvel at his work, and if he failed to make one he would badly disappoint them.

Inspired by a love story he had read about a woman patiently waiting for his betrothed across the sea, he decided to sculpt a figure of a woman sitting on the sandy shores while watching the scenic setting of the afternoon sun. He made use of the most accessible sculpting resource along the shoreline to craft his artwork – sand. He thought of sand as a medium that is easy to work on, since a heap of sand only needed a minute amount of water to shape, and as such is easy to work on. With the help of his old pail filled with water, he moistened the sand and within a matter of hours he painstakingly shaped a beautiful figure out of the sand, complete with details and ornamentation of shells.

He was pleased of his work and called it a day.

Upon his return to the site of his work the morning of the next day, he was shocked and disappointed. He found his sand artwork ruined, but he could not figure out why – it may have been the wind, the tides or even wayward birds who may have thought of the sculpture as a plaything. Worse, he could not discern where to start over, since the entirety of the artwork was turned into a formless heap of dry sand – not a single trace was left of the woman he made.
And he still had the kids to worry about.

And so he opted for an alternative, though tedious, method. Several miles down the shoreline is an estuary at the end of a river, carrying along its rapid and torrential path fine sediments of high quality grayish clay. It would take half a day to go to the place and another half to go back, which is already tiresome on its own. More tiring, however, is the thought that clay has to set for two more days upon molding to become durable.

The sculptor chose to persevere. It is for the children, he thought.

And so with his trusty old pail he set out on a day’s journey to gather good grayish clay from the estuary. It was a long tiring path down the mouth of the river, but he thought it was worth the effort – the smiles of children would be more than enough compensation for his labor. After returning to his house with a pail full of clay he rested for the night, and upon waking up he immediately took the clay to the place where the sand sculpture once stood and started sculpting, ignoring his hunger and taking strength instead from his fervor to impress his esteemed children. It took him half a day to complete the “woman at the beach” sculpture, all with details and shell ornamentation, and he was so pleased that he decided to rest up that night and celebrate on his own with a humble meal of grilled seawater fish, knowing that his clay sculpture would last.

But when he finally fell into a deep sleep, dark clouds suddenly set in and rain started pouring heavily. And when he rose from his slumber, he noticed that the surroundings were drenched with rainwater – and that was when his eyes were opened wide in shock and he started scampering towards his clay sculpture. And in his disappointment he found the sculpture drenched in water, washing away the details and ornamentation he meticulously crafted. Fortunately, he thought, the shape remained intact, for the grayish clay at the core was well-compacted. Yet this thought did not help him regain his composure, either – the core is still too ugly to be called a masterpiece, defaced of its wealth of details. And he only had less than a day to present something to the kids, and he could possibly not gather new clay from the faraway estuary to repair the artwork.

As he lowered his head, weighed down by his dilemma, he noticed something beneath his very feet – he found clay and sand mixed together. He lowered his arms and took a handful of the mixture, and he realized that it was easy to mould almost like sand, while being durable enough like clay.

Immediately, inspiration struck him.

He applied enough water on the sculpture’s clayey core to make it soft again for remolding, and he mixed a generous amount of sand to his clay mass. He then once again started working on his “woman at the beach” figure, and he was particularly ecstatic of the reliability of his material. Once he completed his work of art in half a day and let it set for an hour, he tested its strength by applying excess amounts of water on one part of the work – and to his glee he found the details resistant to excess moisture.

He could not help but be happy from within. He knew the children would love his work once they arrive in a few hours. He would be happy to tell them about his experiences, his failures and his ultimate triumph. He would be happy to teach them how easy it is to shape a sculpture of sand, but equally easy to collapse. He would be happy to explain to the children the inherent tedium of making a clay sculpture – and the pain of seeing damage when exposed to harsh conditions. And finally he would be happy to announce to the children of his new discovery, that mixing the sand from the beach near his house and clay from the faraway estuary would create a masterpiece that will last a lifetime.

Bad Experiences

This is not the first bad experience I had all these days, but I believe this is one worth sharing.

I just had one of the worst nights this year, especially if someone wants to hurt you for a mere space in a train.

I was waiting for an MRT train that night, and it was not really a pleasant sight to behold - two trains had passed in front of me, and all of them are packed with people. The train carriages were so tight that not even a single sardine can fit in. Worse, I am not alone: there are a number of people who are lined up behind me, and I could not get myself to assert my right to being first in line. I really hate it when the code of chivalry (or chauvinism, for those radical few) runs through my mind, allowing the women to take the small spaces that I should have taken for myself.

Then came the third train. The carriages was jam-packed as always, but there was one thing about that time, and that was I was alone in the line, like a speck of dust that was left from a recently wiped table top. The small space that can be created with a little, well, assertive pleading was rightfully mine, I thought to myself.

Then, the unexpected happened.

When I was about to enter the jam-packed carriage I got dragged out by an unknown guy by pulling the back collar of my shirt. Worse, he struck the right side of my stomach with his knee, turning me around like a figurine that was tipped over, and causing me to fall face down. That particular blow gave me a horrendous feeling that one of my innards (possibly my liver) was folded in half and was writhing in pain. And, worst of all, I did not manage to see the person who did it - the train was already leaving by that time I could manage to turn my view around.

It is just a good thing that willing Samaritans wearing security guard uniforms assisted me. They helped me stand up, dusted off the dirt that got stuck on my shirt, and even asked me if I needed medical attention.

Being the one who is used to getting hurt in the years of youth, I simply said I'm fine and that I just want to get home as early as possible.

Then one of the guards described to me what the unkind person looked like - he is not a big person (compared to me), but he looked like a felon and he has dreadlocks for hair.

So much for the "Bob Marley for peace" shirts. And the pain in the back is still there.