The hellidays were descending like thick acid rain; greeted by many with hysteria or pain. The Fluff was the exception – she never felt dread. One more excuse to wear nothing but red. She’d flounced south for the season; mistletoe in her hair. With hopes that some Santa would discover it there.

 

The Trix had just nestled all snug in her booth with visions of gin and a small dash of vermouth. When down sat a sculptor all full of fast patter. I called for the waiter and prayed he’d move faster. When what to my wondering eyes did appear my cold, cold martini and the talker’s first beer.

 

She rattled on forever about blades, rasps and stone ‘til I told her to shut it or this Trix would go home. My threat made her focus, she got to the point. The reason she’d found me right here in this joint.

 

As I sipped at my tini she started to cry. She now hated carving and she wasn’t sure why. She was very successful in fact she was hot, but happy and peaceful she simply was not. She felt sick to her stomach and pain in her soul. And it wasn’t the pretzels she snarfed from the bowl.

The Trix knew the answer even after a drink. So I ordered one more and said “here’s what I think.”

 

“You’re feeling huge pressure to have constant shows. To produce more sculpture; to be on your toes. The galleries, the agents, the collectors, your dad, are all wanting pieces, but none can be bad. Each has to be perfect, to top your last work. And make what they tell you or they’ll think you’re a jerk. Each has to be different, while exactly the same. And after you do, much the credit they’ll claim.

 

“They’ve taken the reason for why you chose art and replaced it with money. They’re breaking your heart. You need to recapture it, sculpt just for you. Remember the process.  It’s why what we do.”

 

I got to my feet and as I strolled out of sight, I tapped my fedora and slipped into the night.