Florence, 1501

They lay in Max's bed, post-loveplay, still awake, nuzzling, relaxing, murmuring, falling asleep. At least Max was falling asleep. Elsie was energized. While Max dozed, Elsie tossed words at him, and these words formed images that filtered into his unconscious, creating dream patterns that he floated through with relaxed ease.

"Now Elsie will tell sleepy Max all about the history of sculpture."

"Ok," Max murmured.

"It all began back in B.C. times," Elsie said. "There were these things called Venus figures. Basically a buncha guys carved some fat girls into stone. And they didn't have arms. Or feet. Strange people living in B.C. times, Max. Then came the first really cool sculpture, Stonehenge. Lotsa big rocks placed just right so they could tell what day it was."

"Stonehenge was the first cool sculpture?"

"Sure, Max. And the Easter Island statues. They're cool too. Then the Egyptians. Pyramids. The Sphinx. And all those odd shaped people. And they made really cool cats. Black cats. And tombs with sarcophaguses for dead people. Mostly pharaohs."

"Sar-- what?"

"--cophaguses. With mummies inside. Sculpted in gold. Really pretty. Expensive, though. More than Elsie can afford."

Max was almost asleep. He really had no idea what Elsie was saying to him. But he loved the way her words sounded. And her voice. Sweet and dancey and full of charm.

"Then the Greeks came along and made the Venus de Milo. Really sexy girl, but no arms. They made whole lots of statues. Some got tossed into the ocean. And none of them had arms. Odd culture, the Greeks. Romans too."

"Huh? Romans?"

"Now we're in the middle ages, Max."

"How'd we get there?"

"We're skipping lotsa stuff cause you're so sleepy. So I'll just hit the highlights for you."

"Ok."

"Those middle ages people were really into cathedrals so there's lotsa angels and Christs and Marys. Your basic religious nuts. Gothic types. This all set the stage for the best time of all. The Renaissance. And my first teachers, Leonardo and Michelangelo."

"Did they charge a lot?"

"No. I got their teaching free from books."

"Oh."

"So now pretend it is 1501, Max. You are in Florence."

"I am in Florence. It is 1501."

"There is a huge block of pure marble in the cathedral work yard. All the great sculptors of the time want to work on it. One or two try. They fail. At last Michelangelo is given a very important commission. He is twenty-five years old and freshly triumphant from making his magnificent Pieta in Rome. The marble block in the churchyard is fifteen feet long, lying on its side. Michelangelo is hungry. He has the block lifted up and then he builds a wooden shed around it to keep out the curious. Then he plunges into twenty-eight months of crazed and furious work. What finally emerges is the serene, beautiful statue of David, the greatest sculpture of all."

In his dream world Max saw a huge, heavy block of milky-white marble. Before it stood a young Italian man with a hammer and chisel, furiously carving.

He heard Elsie's voice as if from afar: "The boy David is depicted just before going into battle with Goliath. He is muscular and strong, with large hands, and a stern straightforward gaze off to one side. And he has glorious buttocks, that's the best part."

Max awoke slightly. "Hmm? What? Buttocks?"

"Oh, you are awake, Max," Elsie said. "Well, it's true. Michelangelo was the greatest sculptor of buttocks ever."

Max mumbled, "Obviously one of his more notable contributions to art."

"Yes. Now go back to sleep, Max."

"Ok."

"And I'll tell you about the great Bernini."

"You like those Italian men, don't you?"

"Oh yes. Donatello. Desiderio. Modigliani. And my favorite, the great Bernini. Go to sleep, Max. You are now in the Cornaro Chapel in Rome. My father took me there when I was ten. I stared for at least an hour at this sculpture called 'the Ecstasy of St. Teresa.'" Max was dreaming again. There was a ten year old girl in an ancient chapel gazing at Bernini's sculpture of St. Teresa, which Max half remembered from an art history class he once took. Sweet Elsie words floated through this dream: "St. Teresa is lying back on a cloud, enveloped in the folds of her gown. Her eyes are closed, her mouth wide open. To the left stands an angel holding an arrow, joining Teresa with Christ, in a mystical way of course. It is very erotic. At ten I had no idea what this was all about, but the sculpture amazed me. I memorized every fold of Teresa's clothing, marveled at each detail of the sculpture: Teresa's delicate hands and feet, the way the angel was gently grasping her gown. It left a great impression on me. My dad had to drag me away. 'C'mon Elsie, there's lots more to see.' It took me a long time to figure out how someone could do such wonderful things with marble."

Max saw Elsie lying back in great folds of marble, heard her soft voice tempting him. Max was amazed by how much talking Elsie was doing for someone usually so quiet.

"Next I had a pair of teachers, Auguste Rodin and Camille Claudel. Wake up, Max. You are now in France. A hundred years ago. Late nineteenth century Paris. It is a tumultuous time for art. There's tons of ugly guys hanging out in Paris, getting sloshed on absinthe. Weird painters are running around chopping off their ears and painting the same cathedral a couple of dozen times. Old movements are quickly dying out and immediately being replaced by new ones. Kinda like today. Only they didn't have Polaroid cameras."

Max liked late nineteenth century Paris. He sensed it was populated with his beloved flappers. Probably getting sloshed on absinthe. Whatever that was.

Elsie said, "It was at this time that Degas made his wonderful Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer, the only sculpture he ever exhibited in his lifetime, although he made many more in his studio. But the real great sculptures were being made by Auguste Rodin and Camille Claudel. Camille Claudel is the woman in the photo on my wall that you stare at so much."

In his mind Max saw the photo of the intense looking woman, unaware until now that Elsie had noticed him staring at it.

"She made beautiful sculptures, but she was in the shadow of the great Rodin, her lover. And so she struggled to make her work known and separate from his. Camille modeled for Rodin. She sculpted a bust of him. They bounced ideas off each other, made sculptures with similar themes. Rodin drew life from her, fed off her ceaseless energy. They were lovers for twelve years and when they broke up Camille descended into misery. She lived the last thirty years of her life in a lonely asylum while Rodin became famous. Only fragments of her life are known. And much of her sculpture was lost or destroyed. Yet the work that remains is vibrant and full of feeling. She taught me how to put emotion into sculpture."

Max was awake and looking bleary eyed at Elsie in the shadowy darkness of his bedroom. She was lying on her side next to him, her face leaning on his chest. Max wondered about the strange woman whose picture adorned Elsie's wall. Camille Claudel. He liked the sound of her name, was fascinated by Elsie's brief description of her life. He closed his eyes, his mind forming images of pure translucent marble. Elsie said, "You can sleep now, Max. The history lesson is over." Max felt Elsie relax, heard her breath move into a soft rhythm. The last words he heard from Elsie before falling asleep for the night were: "You're just a sleepy little boy, Max." And Max slept soundly next to his warm sculpting lover, images from a gallery of delightful marble shapes filling his dream world, inspired by the words just spoken by Elsie.

Late in the night Max awoke or thought he did. The still darkness of his apartment contained Elsie's scent, and her soft breathing silence. He could barely make out the echo of chimes from below. They seemed farther away than usual. The dream images fled and his eyes began to adjust to the night. His window shades were open and flakes of silver light scurried around the edges, falling with shadowy shapes across the glass pane. He sensed there was a slight breeze blowing outside and he thought of his neighbor. Elsie stirred beside him, seemed to murmur something incomprehensible, but perhaps it was just her breathing. Max turned his body slightly to face hers and saw that her eyes were open and watching him.

She whispered, "You're awake too?" and they shared a smile.

"Chimes wake you up?" Max asked.

"Chimes?" She looked puzzled. "I don't think so." She yawned. "It's cold, Max," she said. She snuggled closer and Max held onto her, feeling the warm softness of her tiny form. He heard her sweet voice, whispering again, "What did you dream about?"

"A little girl," he said, "wandering around Italy, looking at marble shapes. What about you?"

"I dreamed I was alone in a big place," Elsie said. "It had windows, though, and I could watch the people outside, playing and working. And then I woke up and you were here."

Max closed his eyes, wondering about Elsie's dream, then he tried to recreate his own dream images, but they were a blur. He nudged Elsie slightly. "When do I get to see your new sculpture?"

"Soon," she said.

And then, without warning, they were asleep again.