Milieu Euphony (In Act Series #2)

Phase 19

PHASE NINETEEN

THE PRIDE OF THE YEARNERS

It had been a few weeks ever since Michelangelo became more honest, but I do not consider him as a person who could journey with me.

I use it as a way to know who he was behind his sculptor façade; however, it wasn't enough to stop me from seeing him as a bronze sculpture, which I believed was rooted in my desperate desire to be one of those who were guided.

Rather than having a plus one in my journey, I gained something which was much better—I believed that I had passion, and it felt good even if it was temporary.

Was it because of Michelangelo's accompaniment? I was unsure.

All I know was—I was enjoying what I had been doing, and I plan to do it until the day that I dreaded would come.

Spending my time with the sculpture-sculptor, I was able to have a glimpse of a so-called guided person's life.

Because aside from being a good sculptor, he was a good drawer. It reminded me of how the Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni started.

From what I remembered from the book, The Agony and The Ecstasy, Michelangelo's father wanted him to study a discipline related to language, but he was uninterested.

He went on in drawing and engaging himself in apprenticeships to sharpen his skills. He also met several painters and trained under them before he became one of the painters who decorated the walls of the Sistine Chapel.

Then, there it was.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni was now famous as the best sculptor that people could have.

But for Michelangelo de Angelis who was named after Michelangelo Buonarroti, I wonder, did he suffer the same fate—to live up to their name? Or was he someone who had the word "sculpture" in their blood?

He was skillful with his works, which was a sign that he liked what he was doing, but what if he was forced to do it?

How bothersome.

What was I trying to prove? It doesn't mean that the existence of a directed man-turned-directionless required the existence of a forced prodigy that wasn't from our lineage.

Hindi palaging gano'n. Hindi palaging porke't merong ganito, meron ding gan'yan. Because sometimes, the existence of one thing meant what it was—nothing more, and nothing less.

My mouth tasted bitter, and it irked me. It wasn't supposed to be like that because all it ever did was misdirect me, but I had no choice but to let it stay and pretend that I was tasteless.

Mawawala rin 'yan 'pag nagtagal.

I sharply drew a breath and continued with my sketch.

It was anatomy class, and we were asked to draw a woman who was sitting on a wooden chair. She was wearing a skin-fit outfit to emphasize the lines and curves around her body.

I drew attention to her calves because the muscles were firm and the veins on her feet were protruding.

The Buonarroti Hall 2 was a room where sculpture students go to attend drawing and anatomy classes. It had a podium where the model would stand and there were big easels and small stools that were arranged in a circle. In that way, students could create an artwork of the same model with different perspectives.