𝐍𝐲𝐱 (𝘨𝘹𝘨)

VII - sculpture-ing

Olive Rios

Olive Rios

I still have an itch about Victoria's sketchbook, which I think stems from my knowing of what it's like to have your creative work ruined. Usually, my pride gets in the way of any apologies I may think about offering, but I (might) owe her one.

As I head to the art room, where I plan to immerse myself in nostalgia by molding some clay (maybe study the planes of the face, maybe sculpt some naked women, we'll see), I think about the last time I created a sculpture. It was in my last year of college, which was when I was twenty-two and I had brought home my final project.

I tend to exaggerate sizes and proportions for aesthetic purposes, so my sculpture was huge. It was a life-sized, creative interpretation of the Winged Victory at SamothRace (a preserved sculpture with wings and stuff like that). Thankfully, I was able to follow my preferred path due to the fact that my dad was paying for my college (that speaks for itself). One day, though, when I got home from my university, I found my Winged Victory destroyed into pieces.

That was the day my dad died and the day I showed up to my sculpting class with no final project.

I walk down the hallway, my boots making a subtle noise against the stone floor leading to the art room.

That's when I see her honey ringlets secured with a pencil, drooping down due to the weight of her curls. I frown in coincidence, it seems we both came to the art room to do the same thing.

I walk forward as I hear her sigh in frustration, she seems to be having trouble with her sculpture. It seems to be a bust (haha) sculpture of a woman. It doesn't look like it though, because she's having trouble with the planes of the face, something near the eyes. I can tell she doesn't have much experience sculpting, which makes my heart skip a little; because I can do something better than she can.

"Need help, princess?" I whisper and she gets startled.

She swishes around and her eyes are caramel brown and startled. It's the first time I got to truly examine them; she has glowing eyes that look like honey or dulce de leche, with little specks of darker brown (kind of like chocolate chip cookies). I feel my chest lean in a little, but I get a hold of my head and utter some words to save myself:

"I studied sculpture in college, I can help you i-if you want," I explain quickly, my previous confidence declining extremely fast. My palms become sweaty as she changes her blank expression into a smile. My heart gives a sigh, of relief I assume, I stop holding my breath.

"Thank you," She tells me. She looks down at her hands and tries to rub the clay off.

"It's whatever," I mutter, waving it off as though her smile didn't cause my heart to burn (in anger, I believe). She so obviously takes at least some joy in making me nervous, and it makes me uncomfortable and unsure and uncontrolled.

I focus on her sculpture. She has a grip over the basics and understands facial anatomy, but it's clear she's not comfortable creating anatomy with clay. I see her, through my peripheral vision, stand close next to me. She's also looking at the sculpture and I can feel the heat coming off of her body.

I clear my throat—uncomfortable—and step forward. I glance at the dish of water that is on one of the many stools in the art room and dunk my hands in a few times. I begin to mold the sculpture's properties and glance back at her. She's staring at my hands, analyzing their every move.

I tell her, "You want to carve of the eye area." I gently put my pointer and middle finger in the area and pluck some moist clay. I roll it into a ball, feelings her eyes on me. I mold the eye area and create the socket, still using the fingers I'm most comfortable with.

I hear hum a small response and she steps forward, putting her hands on the sculpture and trailing them to the other eye. I plucked the eye piece out of the face and roll it in between my hands. I look up from the ball and see her concentrating on the shape.

"Is this okay?" She whispers, unsure of herself, but still smiling.

I hum in approval, placing the orb inside the socket.

Irene and I are making alfajores from scratch with Victoria Valentín. I watch them mold the cookie dough and mimic their movements. Making alfajores is a Sunday activity in the Valentín household (what's left of it) is a tradition that they're letting me take part in. I place the cookie on the sheet and go over to the sink to wash my hands, and then I hear a small 'poof'.

"Ah..." I hear Victoria sigh out. I turn, seeing her chest full of white powder. "I'm going to clean this up," She says. Irene looks at her sympathetically and places her last cookie cover on the pan.

Once Victoria's out of the room, I hear Irene say, "It's nice that you two are starting to get along." I turn my head from the door and hum as a response.

"I doubt that it'll last long, though," I mutter, drying my hands.

"Why do you say that?" Irene inquiries, heading over to the sink as well.

"We're so different," I start, "She's this New York rich girl and I'm a gay outcast who has—had—a carpenter for a father." I lean on the counter, pressing my lips together.

I hear Irene chuckle. She turns, "Victoria Valentín is not rich." I look at her, her blue eyes dancing with wisdom. I raise a brow and take the bait.

"I thought you Valentíns had money," I curiosly say.

"Yes, we do. But, Victoria isn't that dirty word you described her as. She's a heavily intellectual human being—likely taught to be that sort of intellectual being by her parents. I am rich, that is a word you can use to describe me. But, Victoria—before coming here—lived in a small apartment in a not-so-expensive part of Manhattan," She tells me this firmly and strongly. "I have properties all over the Americas, even in Switzerland. They however—while having the ability to buy too many mansions in this world—chose not to. The most they've ever allowed themselves was a quaint Victorian house in Upstate New York, where they took the liberty of skiing." Her blue eyes seem piercing and almost taunting.

"So..." I start, trying to put her experienced words to understanding, "they weren't rich because they chose not to use their money on unnecessary things," I tilt my head a bit.

She nods her head, starting, "You could say they were wealthy, comfortable, sweetly-living. But, they were not filthy or rich, and that girl they left alone in this world is certainly not filthy."

I look at the door as it opens, revealing a now clean Victoria.

A/N: i want so badly for someone to notice the symbolism in this chapter