Sculpting the Sea

In rhythmic intervals of brief indecision, the formerly composed curves of the infinite landscape were dismissively elapsed and crafted rapidly anew with impatient vigour. Carved hills were modified and implemented to form cradling valleys of white and blue, pigments that were now scarce upon the palette of the unfavourable sculptor. The landscape dwelled in a state of disproportion, but was then hesitantly drafted to unfold the undesired crease of deformity. Waves crashed in demolition. White foam erupted rebelliously in defiance, but where hidden between a further layer of brine. This correction, however, was self-contradictory by its lack of necessity and its indelicate implementation, and evoked a second crease upon the landscape. Once more, this crease was disposed of, an adjustment performed only to similarly inflict its own value by persuading a further crease to develop.

This contradicting paradox continued in its irritable unrest; or so it was perceived through the sculptor's narrowed eyes, under his furrowed brows. Perceived by others, the piece that was being seemingly plagued with such a curious paradox was a body of accepted irregularity and texture, with little to recommend it as intelligent or outstanding. Waves never truly adopt the description of beauty. They are seen as natural, systematic forms; inevitable if one visits, encounters or challenges the sea; an inarguable feature of the oceans: a common characteristic whose demeanour has dissolved into normality. Nevertheless, the sculptor was comfortable within his recluse of ignorance. Here, the supply of indecision and infinite dissatisfaction was plentiful. Ignorance took little from the competence of the sculptor, however. The ever-modifying curves of the landscape were carefully extracted from single strokes of a brush, supplying quality that was always repeated in a scarcity of inspiration and creativity. The waves never obtained a new colour, never adopted a new form or behaved differently.

The sculptor was somewhat neglectful of this, and remained in fervent unreasonableness. In his distraction, the sculptor was blinded. At moments of indecision, that was infected into the mind of the sculptor and quickly solidified there in self-proclaimed necessity, the landscape was desolate of curves and texture. The sculptor could not decide: soft waves, with timid foam lapping their curved edges, or rolling, angular waves with white standards announcing their procession?

Occasional incidents occurred when spectators, attempting to exploit the textured surface of the sea, created larger creases and tears upon the landscape. This, most understandably, infuriated the sculptor, who crafted greater valleys and hills to unfold and conjoin the now disrupt landscape – stirring vicious storms and high waves, in which the unknowing spectators often lost themselves. Applied in harsh, hurried or impatient tones, the landscape was exploited and admired by the people. Applied in gentle, indecisive or delicate tones, the landscape was similarly exploited and admired. In immiscible passion and dislike, the sculptor continued the progress of correction, modifying each implementation in turn.

Each modification and moment of consideration taken by the sculptor decreased the perfection of the piece, and the sculptor continued to encourage this bipolar consequence. Every new wave sculpted demolished another. Immoderate accuracy and proportion was fuelled by immoderate satisfaction. The perfection, yearned blindly by the sculptor, would never be achieved. Even more irritable and unjust was the true paradox that had fixated itself within the foundations of the artwork: the spectators would be privileged to admire the normality of the piece, whilst the sculptor, to ensure the continuity of such reception; to ensure the production of each continuous wave, was to never fulfil his personal view of success and completion. Only with his indecision and self doubt were the irregular waves to continue upon oceans and reveries. The unfurling and disposing of waves would serve as the only pass-time within his well of ignorance.