I am not a rude person by nature. I have been known to lose my voice after a day of excusing myself on the streets of New York City. I made up my mind when I encountered the thronging mass of people slowing making their way around the Rodin exhibit at the N.C. Museum of Art last month that this was the survival of the fittest. I came to experience each piece and to feel the passion that went into every depression. I came to step into another world, to enter a master’s mind and feel what he felt as he molded the clay in his hands. I could not do that by herding through the exhibit like livestock.
My last impression of the exhibit was “Hand of God.” I marveled at the beauty and fluidity of the piece. I was amazed by its delicacy and vitality. If was as if it could come to life at any moment and reach out to caress my cheek with cool, soft fingers. My reverie was broken by a couple looking at the same masterpiece.
“That’s a big slab of rock.”
“Sure is.”
“I bet it weighs a lot.”
“Yep.”
“Wonder how they move something that big.”
“Real careful.”
The “Hand of God” crumbled to dust before my eyes.
