A Poem by Curtis Meyer
Releasing David
I.
It is said, that when Michelangelo was asked how he carved
the statue of David from a block of marble, he replied,
The statue was always there. I just had to release it.
II.
After months of wearing bandanas to hide the mop on my head,
I go in to get a haircut, and the first thing one notices
about Amanda besides the blonde streak in her hair is her tattoos:
A black widow on her shoulder, a tapestry of blue waves
and Japanese blossoms peeking out from the refuge of her tank-top;
The whole package saying, Make no mistake – I am an artist.
III.
There is a story of a young man in a couple who, upon crossing paths with a
famous artist, requests a portrait of his woman, who happens to be a fan.
The artist takes out a scrap of paper and sketches her in all of 30 seconds.
He hands the sheet to the couple who gasp in awe of the finished product.
How much do I owe you? says the man.
That’ll be $1,000.00, says the artist.
That’s outrageous. says the man. “That took you less than a minute to complete.”
Yes, says the artist. And a lifetime learning how to do so.
IV.
In his book Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell discusses
The 10,000-hour Theory. Simply stated, whether intentional
or not, humans will master any skill in approximately 10,000 hours –
the equivalent of three hours practice a day or 20 hours a week for 10 years,
be it anything from typing faster, to engaging in sports, to learning how to play the violin.
Think of something you were doing 10 years ago.
By the seventh year, enough knowledge has been acquired
to teach the skill to others. By the eighth or ninth year, it’s become a reflex.
Something tells me Amanda’s been doing this for about eight years.
I wonder if she sees me as a customer or more of a canvas.
Titling my head like clay on a potter’s wheel, she is carving poetry
into my scalp, writing sonnets with scissors in iambic pentameter:
Pull. Snip, snip, snip. Pull. Snip, snip, snip. She is releasing
David from my skull, her hands dancing ballet / waltzes on figure skates,
chiseling away excess to reveal the treasure beneath.
I am transfixed by the thought of hygiene as a medium;
That somewhere there is a Picasso of manicures, a Kandinksy of dentistry.
V.
My friend Arnie is a professional actor and comedian.
He once said outside a comedy open mic, Isn’t it weird
how whenever audiences see performers complete physical acts like
juggling on a unicycle, they say “That’s impressive,” but when
they see someone talk onstage for 25 minutes, they say, “I can do that”?
I’m doing the spiritual equivalent of juggling on a unicycle – No you can’t.
VI.
One of my favorite quotes is, The art is hiding the art.
Larry Byrd used to shoot 100 free-throws from half-court before every game.
Whether surfing, archery, or pick-pocketing, the idea is to have deft touch:
Too much or too little and everything falls apart.
Some pick-up artists get offended by the title, preferring the term
Venusian Artists, after Venus, since martial arts refer to the god of war.
There is an art to Bruce Lee kicking ass, just as there is an art
to baking a flambé or Michael Jordan sinking a slam dunk; An ability
that transcends the notions of skill into a category only properly described as grace.
I believe that part of the reason people see jobs as jobs is because
we’ve started thinking more in terms of our rights than our personal value;
We see ourselves as employees, and not as artists.
VII.
My friend Tony has a poem about the true story of a man who makes sculptures
out of radioactive materials, a task he partakes in in solitude, and through
exposure to radiation poisoning, will eventually cost him his life.
He says, of works no one will see for 10,000 years,
Someone has to do this. Someone has to make these things beautiful.
VIII.
The most talented person I’ve ever known was my best friend, who before
his death at age 26, was a carpenter in addition to being a poet and emcee.
I never saw him lose a rap battle, and once
witnessed him freestyle for over 20 minutes.
He told me he started rapping at age 13 – thirteen years before
his suicide – and honed his skills by watching soap operas
on mute and hurling insults at the actors. For the record,
his name was David.
IX.
I ponder Michelangelo’s reaction to his masterpiece
decaying over time – David’s toes eroded by the hands of tourists
eager to touch and grasp divine craftmanship, a piece of God
almost tangible, like fingers sifting through a fresh buzz-cut,
just as I wonder how Amanda feels about her work being less
than permanent. Like trees, hair catalogues
the experiences of its owner in timeline.
Art may be as temporary as the life of its creator,
but I wonder if she ever sees re-shaping seas
of strands and curls as re-writing history.
X.
There is a story about a priest who called a repairman
to fix his church’s organ, long since out of tune.
The repairman taps a few keys, stops, reaches into his toolkit,
takes out a small hammer, and gives single hit to a pipe.
The priest sits down, and plays a few bars of his favorite hymn.
It plays perfect, he says. How much do I owe you?
That’ll be $1,000.00.
But all you did was hit a single pipe.
Let me give you some perspective father: That’s $1.00
for the hit, $999.00 for knowing where to hit.
XI.
Amanda holds my head, centering my reflection in the mirror;
Squints before saying, I’m sorry for taking so long. Before
I can tell her it’s okay, she adds, I’m a bit of a perfectionist.
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