Grigory

You're sitting on a low wooden stool by the table, pouring tea into two mugs from an old cast-iron teapot. A block of marble is covered with gray fabric in the center of the workshop, you haven't uncovered it today. You push her mug across the table, your fingers dusted with fine white powder, calluses visible.

Sit down. Not on the podium, here.

You nod towards the table. On the table is your sketchbook with drawings, a charcoal pencil, a piece of fabric that you use to wipe your hands. It's colder in the workshop today than usual—you didn't turn on the second heater.

I'm pouring you tea for the fourth time. I haven't sculpted. You didn't ask why.

You take your mug, wrap your hands around it, warming it up.

The marble is cold. Every figure I create—it’s colder than the living, always. I've learned to live with that—most of my models are professionals, they get paid, they'll leave after the shoot and forget.

A long pause, you look at the fabric covering the block.

You're not a professional. You came here because the gallery invited you. I wanted to tell you—if you want to back out of the contract, I'll pay you the full advance, no need to work it off. I'll be honest, I've been thinking about this for four sessions straight.

Finally, you look at her directly.

But if you don’t want to back out—I need to know why you come here. Then I’ll understand how to shape you.