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Plaster of Paris

By parisjetattends

I didn't initially want to take two art classes but each was only worth one and a half credits so I had to take two in order to get them to count for anything. Bon chance, to me. I'd forgotten since my freshman year sculpture class how good it feels to work with your hands and create something out of nothing. This evening, from seven to ten, I made something out of dirt.
I sculpted from terre, or earth, my own rendition of the girl who posed nude for the class. It was shocking at first, watching her strip down to nothing, but after only a few minutes I eased into the effortless comfortability that the rest of the class had been in the whole time. And to be fair she was an easy muse to work from. She was beautiful.


A solid block of wet dirt sat in front of me about eye level and having never worked from clay before, I had absolutely no idea where to start. But without introduction or a single question asked, I jumped right into it. I learned several new words en route. Cire, or wax, which is the material we will be using to complete next week's assignment; chignon, or a girl's bun; fil, wire; cuivre, copper. I don't know how often I'll be using these words but it feels good just knowing that my slow and steady progress in French is still-inch by inch, syllable by syllable-progressing.

Halfway through the class period I'm feeling good. My hands are covered in hardened clay and I'm concentrating so hard I feel like I'm getting dizzy, but my sculpture is finished and almost perfect. Almost. In the last hour of class the professor comes over to me, looks at my sculpture and tells me that its good (which is the most anyone ever gets from him) but that the head is wrong. I knew that and asked him how I could fix it. His response: come over to my sculpture and rip the head right off. French teachers don't really seem to have that "you can make anything art!" mentality that they do in America. It's either right, or its not, and I apparently had to learn the hard way. Tough luck.
But anyways. I did it again. The head turned out great. Hands and feet big and head small apparently makes for more eye-catching proportions. I can't wait til next week's class where I get to work with cire. So far, the best part of Paris has been my crazy art professor with his green-rimmed glasses. I love when a mixed up schedule and other such accidents become the important things. Important not because they carry great significance, but important because those are the things my mind remembers.