The Prisoner (Ode to Michelangelo)

While in Florence this past September, I visited the Galleria dell'Accademia, well-known for the statue of David prominently on display. He is hard to miss. As soon as you enter the door to the first gallery, there he is, in all his glory, at the end of a long hallway. It's easy to see why visitors are immediately summoned to stand in his presence and to witness the enduring talent of his sculptor, the master, Michelangelo. He is beautiful. He is immense. He is powerful.

He is, after all, a finished masterpiece.

But if you pause, and take a moment to notice the unfinished sculptures that line the hallway leading up to David, you will find yourself witness to the process of creation itself, cut short by the very thing that enduring works of art attempt to cheat. Death.

The Prisoners, as they are known, are the pieces Michelangelo was working on at the time of his death. Their power lies in their lack of completion. When you view any one of them, you begin to notice that Michelangelo wasn't simply carving a figure from the stone, he was releasing the beauty that had always been there, patiently waiting for the sculptor to come along and free it from its prison of marble. If you could just move that little bit of stone, you would find the hand that wished to touch the face of a loved one, or the foot that longed to embark on a journey. Michelangelo wasn't sculpting the hand from his own imagination, or the foot from the vision within his artist's eye, he was simply setting them free to be whatever they were already meant to be. Ironically, when he died, he himself was set free from the bonds of a physical existence, but his death left the beloved unfinished pieces doomed to an eternity trapped in stone.

I can relate much more closely with The Prisoners than I can with David. I am nowhere near a finished masterpiece. I am a work in progress, waiting for my true beauty to be released. For the past several years, I have felt the work my sculptor was doing to release me. Bit by bit, and piece by piece, I could sense the beginning of my freedom as I emerged from the block of stone. Sometimes it was painful, often it was uncomfortable, but my sculptor worked patiently, with love and with care, continuously chipping away.

Setting me free to be whatever I was already meant to be.

Recently, however, I have found myself feeling trapped much like The Prisoners. Doomed to live out the rest of my life, just free enough to notice that I am not free at all. I haven't felt the loving hand of my sculptor for quite some time.

Which leads me to wonder...

What if my sculptor is dead?