Camille Claudel was a sculptor, but sometimes she took her clothes off and modeled poses of despair, anguish and exhaustion for her married boyfriend, Auguste Rodin. I imagine her crouched on the bare wooden floor in the naked loneliness of self-soothing. I read somewhere that Rodin preferred his models to be hurting physically while he worked their forms in pencil or stone. Beyond the call of art, his capacity to witness a woman’s suffering without intervening served him well in his personal life. Camille put up with him for fifteen years until he made the mistake of forcing her to have an abortion.
Seven years later she was still thinking about him, worrying her former lover wanted to kill her. She barricaded herself in her cottage and broke her best statues and then an asylum ate her whole.
Camille crouched in the belly of the wail for thirty years before her limbs reached the rigor mortis peak of hard perfection. The woman who sculpted as if her hands were on fire forgot what stone looked like but remembered exactly how it feels.
I saw her. A woman made of stone. And fell instantly in love.
-Adapted from Merri Lisa Johnson
The Lonely Island makes me happy.
In the middle of the table is a BOILED GOOSE.
Jimmy Cooking
Nothing makes me quite as happy as J-Fall
(Source: latenightwithjimmyfallon.com)
About me
As life goes by, sometimes you need to take a second to stop and appreciate the little things. That's what I intend to do.
