Tell me now
Between you and me
What will become of us
Will we walk on soft dirt roads
From my past
That are so familiar to me
Making it into our future…you and me
Will I sculpt the sculpture of…you and me
Taking your breath away…
Reminding you of who we will remain…Just you and me
Yes, it is you and I
As you envelope my soft warm body
In your strong big arms
What will become of us…you and I
He was a famous sculptor. She was just starting to learn her craft and live her dream. Her father was the only member in the family who supported her dream to become a sculptress. In those days it wasn’t fitting for a woman to pursue her love for art.
She started to recognize and understand the only man she would ever love. She was the first woman to work with Rodin in his studio as his assistant. To her, Rodin was absolutely the most talented sculptor among the artists of the 19th century. She had written a poem to him. Hiding it in her pocket, knowingly it was tucked away. This secret she already felt for him. Every dream starts as a dream, but when it turns into reality the feelings are immeasurably more intense and deeper.
She became more than his assistant. She was extremely pretty and talented. This was so knew to him to find a woman who loved the art of sculpting almost as much as he did; maybe even more. Her crush couldn’t be helped she was only seventeen so impressionable; so naive. His instruction inspired her to work with her hands as if she was he. All her senses sharper more alive and she felt this deep in her heart and in her mind.
He recognized her beauty her dedication her discipline. This young beautiful woman within his power. More than a sculptor to her, but her lover, remembering when she molded the clay when they were alone in his studio. He came from behind her as his hands slid down her hips lifting the white cotton skirt. To his delight feeling her womanly curves, her soft skin, her hard firm body, touching her in places she never imagined were so alive. His face and breath on her neck. Now his arms wrapped around hers. Her small delicate hands wrapped in his large hands. He said, “Camille, you see just start with the entire form of the body, using both his thumbs pressing down on the molded clay. Molding the clay as he molded their love…
“Mon Cher’ie ici laissez-moi vous montrer. Vous voyez juste la première forme qui est la base. Maintenant tu essaye. “
“My Cher’ie here let me show you. You see, just the form first, that is the basis. Now you try.”
Gloria’s love for art came from Aunt Gertrude. Gertrude was a serious artist, she was a serious sculptress and Gloria’s exposure to her seriously made an impression on Gloria and she pursued this with all her talent. At the Mary C. Wheeler school, Gloria shared with her son, “I really loved it there and I started to have a more sense of myself.” There was a wonderful art department and they allowed me to work during off hours in the studio.” The studio was equipped with everything and there is where Gloria became an artist…becoming a part of her till this very day. At 91 she continues to draw and paint everyday. At my age I continue to write…
That’s what I do, that’s how I write, I assimilate, I combine people’s lives. Whether in the past or in the present it’s all relevant. Thoughts are interconnected from the past to the present and into the future. Thoughts, feelings, experiences are the most valued in our separate lives.
It’s been a perfect day. The rain fall made it cozy and easy to write. My door wide open in my bedroom leading into the courtyard. I love the thundering; the lightening. All this is so inspirational. I am completely enamored to.write and to share. Perhaps like all writers we do want to leave a piece of us behind. The only way to write is with all your freedom and conviction.
Advertised on the front page was a picture of Gloria who had made her first Holy Communion. It really was a big deal then. But I’m sure most of us didn’t understand the significance or knew if this was a calling like a woman summoned to be a nun or a man summoned to be priest. I remember my experience and it was exciting. I wore a beautiful white dress made out of chiffon with a crown and a veil. I remember my dress feeling picky, my skin was extremely sensitive I can never wear wool because it drives me mad. My hair was shoulder length and my mother had cut bangs. The memory so palpable recalling walking into the church during the procession and how special that felt. We were all little girls and we were special on that day.
I remember the things I was able to keep, the rosary, scapular, a prayer book and the memory of walking down the aisle to receive holy communion. Of course when I was younger and I went church with my mother and grandmother I wondered when was I was going to stand in line and receive communion and walk down the isle feeling enormously blessed. The scapular was a token of devotion to God and my devotion to God was directly tied to my grandmother; my personal Dodo. Yes, Indeed Gloria and I were special little girls. Her in her time and I in my time, all interspersed and connected we shall remain. We are more alike than unlike.