A Change of Heart: A Parable

And I will give them one heart, and I will put a new spirit within you; and I will take the stony heart out of their flesh, and will give them an heart of flesh:

-       Ezekiel 11:19

(Names have been concealed to protect the identity of the innocent)

Preface: It was with great joy and some bewilderment that I received the assignment of interviewing the legendary sculptor, X. No one had seen nor heard from him for many years. He was once the toast of Rome but had disappeared into a fog so thick that most thought he was dead. Upon arriving at the small apartment I was greeted by someone entirely different than what I had imagined, totally unlike the person still circulating in the legends. He smiled widely, bid me entrance, and guided me across a stone floor to a small table. He offered me some tea, which I accepted, and did so with a gentleness I did not expect. There was no malice to be found in his demeanor, nothing to support the stories. In all truth, to my discerning eye, the elderly man I found in front of me seemed to have one of the most loving and kind hearts I have ever had the pleasure to experience. After seating himself across from me, he waited patiently for me to prepare my interview materials. With some trepidation I began.

Me: So, many have called you a genius. Do you agree?

X: A Genius?

Me: Yes, they say that your art transcends the physical world...that it captures something divine. Do you see yourself as gifted?

X: Yes and no.

Me: What do you mean?

X: Well, it depends on what you think the gift is.

Me: Isn't it your ability to transform stone into something incredibly beautiful?

X: Chiseling a piece of stone into any desired shape is merely an act of patience, discipline, and practice. There's no gift there. It's hard work, time, and a delicate touch...nothing more.

Me: So what is the gift then?

X: The true gift is the ability to envision the end form in one's mind, to see it in all of its exquisite detail, and to be able to hold that image frozen in perfect stillness. The stone is just a large and bulky piece of tracing paper at that point. I'm merely projecting what is inside of me onto it.

Me: So, it's this internal ability that is your blessing?

X: Yes. Well...now at least. It wasn't always a blessing. There was a time when it was a curse.

Me: What do you mean?

X: Before I became skilled enough to be able to transfer these internal visions onto stone they were a torment to me. You see, the very thing I am to create already exists in me. It really exists...in my mind, and it demands to be released. I can't stop thinking about it. I am consumed by its presence, unable to function normally. This is what forced me to spend so much time practicing sculpture. This is precisely why I am skilled at stonework. Because it was the only way to get these images out of me...it was the only way to free them...and free myself in the process.

Me: Some would think you would want to keep such beauty to yourself.

X: The images come as a gift, but unless I give them away, they are a curse. You have no idea how much they scream for their freedom. You said people think my art captures something divine...well, have you ever tried to deny the divine what it requests? I can't ignore them; they demand to be shared.

Me: Shared with whom?

X: All of my sculptures were gifts to the world...to my fellow man. They were the means by which others could see what I was seeing internally. Once I converted the thing that existed inside of me into something in the physical world, into stone, it somehow was no longer inside of me. Then I have peace again. That's all I care about.

Me: You've had some harsh critics over time.

X: Hah. I was waiting for this.

Me: Do you mind discussing this?

X: Not at all. Go right ahead. Ask what you want.

Me: Some would claim you are an egomaniac, that you are vain and prone to fits of anger, that you can't take criticism.

X: All that was once true.

Me: Once? But no more?

X: Oh, I am still vain and self-analytical and I still have trouble being critiqued; it just isn't directed at the same audience anymore. I used to really care what men thought of my art. There is always some particular emotion that my sculptures are supposed to capture, to preserve and frame to be seen by others. If my audience seems to not experience that emotion, I find it devastating. It's like a denial that the emotion itself is genuine, that I really feel it. It's horrible. I don't want my audience doubting my sincerity.

Me: Like your masterpiece The Longing?

X: Exactly. When a person looks at that statue they are supposed to really feel the woman's longing. They are supposed to know without a doubt that she is suffering from an excruciating desire for some unknown thing or person.

Me: So...what is she longing for anyhow?

X: You know, I had no idea at the time I made that statue.

Me: Do you know now?

X: Her beloved, of course! What else do people long for?

Me: And people can see that?

X: They're supposed to be able to. They are supposed to see it in her demeanor, in her face. What does an emotion really look like anyhow? You can't see it...but you can see how it manifests itself on a person's body. The emotion does exist but it is invisible. The only evidence of its existence is the transformation it causes in the face, the body, the life of a human being. That is the only way one knows it is real...even without directly seeing it. That is the evidence of the invisible, the proof of the unseen. And the very thing itself, that which is unseen and invisible, can jump from one person to another in a moment of revelation. The observer actually feels it as well as the person being observed...even if the person being observed is made of stone.

Me: And if someone doesn't feel it?

X: That's what used to bother me. I found it intolerable that a person...any person...could not feel the emotion I had worked to capture. The very idea that they only saw a piece of stone, that the stone was not transformed into an expression of emotion inside of them, seemed impossible. Back then, I saw only two possibilities. I had either failed in producing in stone what was inside of me...in which case, they were telling me I was a failure, that the purpose behind what I was doing did not actually exist, that the years of practice being tortured by these internal visions were a waste. By not feeling it themselves, they were saying it didn't exist. I could not tolerate that.

Me: What was the other possibility?

X: If it wasn't a problem with me...with my art...then there must have been something wrong with them. I always found this a much easier explanation to accept. The person in question was incapable of some fundamental ability to see. He was blind to the thing that existed beneath the surface of the stone, to the thing, the emotion, that lurked behind it waiting patiently to jump into him. For whatever reason this person was stunted and inferior, a sub-human who was crippled internally. In the old days, I wanted nothing to do with people who could not see beyond the surface of my sculptures. I wanted nothing to do with people who did not feel what I felt. I hated them. I raged against my critics, attacking them verbally and sometimes physically.

Me: I've heard the stories.

X: Well, everything you've heard is probably true. I had been given such wonderful gifts but I was still little more than an animal. Isn't it strange how these beautiful images could exist in a mind such as mine, a mind so crude and self-centered? My heart was made of stone. No wonder these visions wanted to get out of me so badly, yes?

Me: You said this was all in the past.

X: It is...at least my outward expression of it. There may be times, even now, when people's criticisms of my art hurts...when it makes me question myself and all of the visions I have received. Sometimes I may even be tempted to anger or hatred as a result...but I've learned to control my actions. If I feel this way internally, I can at least control what I do externally, right? Honestly, I rarely even feel this way anymore anyhow. I have been hard at work for quite some time. Like I said, chiseling a piece of stone into any desired shape is merely an act of patience, discipline, and practice.

Me: Is this why you haven't produced a sculpture in so many years? Do you still receive the visions?

X: Most certainly I do.

Me: I thought they demanded to be let out.

X: Oh, they do. There is no ignoring them. Of course, perfecting the stone takes time...depending on the density and cut and what kind of rock you are working with, it can take an inordinate amount of time to complete a piece of art. Often you think you are done only to spot another defect in the stone, another rough spot...then the work must begin again in earnest. Once again you must inspect the piece under the light, let luminance shine through the stone if need be, root out and identify any inconsistencies. If there is a problem with the stone itself, perhaps just under the surface, you may need to shave off another layer, to expose another level. The perfected image really often exists deep within the stone. It's a matter of making sure it is fully exposed, that it can shine through completely.

Me: It has been rumored that you have spent the last 10 years working on another masterpiece. Are you confirming this now?

X: Indeed I have been.

Me: When can the world expect to see this piece?

X: Why, just as soon as they know where to look.

Me: Can you at least describe for the world what the image is like, the thing you've spent the last 10 years working to create in stone?

X: Perhaps you've heard the story of my outburst in Rome?

Me: At the Z Catherdral? You mean where you destroyed your masterpiece Searching?

X: Yes. I had worked for so long on that piece.

Me: It was a life-size sculpture of yourself at work, wasn't it?

X: Yes. At the time I thought it was perfect. The perfect recreation of what had been inside of me for so long. It was me carving a piece of stone, searching to find in rock something that was trapped within me. Every expression of determination was captured on my face, every fear and hope about my own ability to pull something from the stone, to craft it in some way into what I could see internally, and give life to it by freeing the life inside of me. "Searching". It was perfect title for what I had been doing.

Me: A portrait of the artist at work, so to speak.

X: Exactly. I thought the Searching I had spent so much time on was perfect...undeniably perfect. What a fool I was.

Me: What happened?

X: It was at the unveiling. The piece was to be unveiled to the public and Y was to attend.

Me: Y? I've read he was your mentor.

X: The greatest sculptor known to man. A genius of unspeakable magnitude. The only person who's opinion really could have reached me. He was my inspiration. I was honored.

Me: And?

X: The ceremony went off without a hitch. You'll remember, I was quite famous at the time and the public was still interested in my work. When the veil was drawn back revealing my Searching, people were speechless. They glowed with admiration. All except for Y - he stood quietly, his aged eyes still bright. There was a hush in the crowd as he stepped past the restraints and approached the piece. I felt an immense excitement and honor. This sweet old man smiled widely as reached his hand up and touched my stony semblance...it seemed so tender, like he really felt for the person in front of him, frozen in stone. There was a moment where time seemed to stand still as he ran his withered hand over the smooth stone in front of him. Then he turned and shook his head and began crying. The crowd was confused. He began to walk away. Around me people began to murmur and whisper to one another. I couldn't let him just leave. I ran up behind him. "Master Y...wait", I pleaded. I could see the tears streaming down his face. "What's wrong, sir. Please tell me what's wrong with it?' I begged. Just before reaching the doors of the cathedral he turned and looked at me with a gaze that pierced to my very soul. Then he told me what was wrong...and I will never forget what he said.

Me: What did he say?

X: In a voice that seemed as cracked and ancient as his wrinkled face he said, "Can't you see it? Your Searching...is a complete waste of time."

Me: That's it? That's all he said?

X: That was it. That was all he needed to say. I fled the Cathedral, out into the night, and found refuge in a nearby tavern, sulked into the darkest corner I could find, hid my face inside a hooded cloak so none would recognize me, and commenced drinking. As I drown my sorrows I found that this time I had no escape from the pain. I could not choose to believe that this man just was incapable of seeing the thing I had freed from inside myself, that he did not have the faculties to witness the genius in front of him as I had done to so many others before him. No, not this time. Y was without doubt the one person I could not relegate to the meaninglessness throng that crowded past, those whose criticism of me had merely made visible their own inferiority. It just wasn't him. It couldn't have been something wrong with him.

Me: So it had to be you?

X: Exactly. Without a doubt, it really was me. I had failed in my Searching. Yes, I had adequately captured what was inside of me...and it was that very thing, my invisible emotion, my passion to find meaning in the stone around me that he had denounced. He hadn't been talking about the sculpture at all. It was me. I had been wasting my life, searching all this time in vain. The sculpture was a monumental success, the perfectly captured image of a man doomed to failure. I had to accept that it was all a lie, all the purpose and meaning I thought were really there, weren't. I was a charlatan, a puffed up buffoon. Everything I had built my life upon crashed down inside of me in the matter of few hours as I sat there drinking, the laughable vanity and meaninglessness of it all soaking into my mind faster than the liquor. I was done. It was all over. There was only one thing left to do, only one that thing that remained to remind me of my shame. Searching. I had to put an end to my life of Searching. I waited until the late hours of the night and crept back into the cathedral, forcing my entry through an unlocked window. There was no one left. I searched for something I could use, scouring the cathedral until I found a cornerstone that was loose along the wall. I pried it loose from its seat, a large crudely cut stone, lifted it above my head and hurled it repeatedly against my creation. In a fit of drunken rage I pummeled my Searching mercilessly, until finally there was nothing less but gravel and dust. It was the only time I have ever destroyed one of my own creations. I was very much killing a part of myself. I'm not sure how long it took but afterwards I collapsed and passed out on the floor from a combination of exhaustion and drunkenness.

Me: What happened next?

X: I woke up a few hours later at the insistency of the authorities and was escorted to a jail cell.

Me: And then?

X: And then nothing. I was out the next day. No charges were ever filed. My act of vandalism was begrudgingly overlooked. I lost all of the money I had been granted to create the piece and I took my chisel and threw it into the river. I then moved here, disappeared from the world at large and have been here ever since.

Me: How is it that someone so used to creating and working can just stop doing it?

X: Who said I did? My true work had finally begun those ten long years ago and it hasn't stopped since.

Me: You are speaking of your new piece, yes?

X: That's what you say.

Me: When will it be done?

X: Good question. I don't know if it will ever be done. The stone from which I am carving it is the most intricate and sensitive stone I've ever worked on. I must proceed with extreme precision.

Me: There are some who say it is the very headstone you used to destroy your Searching. Is there any truth to that?

X: Some, I suppose...but not as you think.

Me: The stone disappeared shortly after your incident ten years ago.

X: You've got me. To that I will finally confess. I have it. Would you like to see?

Me: Absolutely.

X: Do you see the tiles on this floor?

Me: Made from the headstone?

X: The very truth you've been seeking, revealed at last! I've been standing on that headstone for these past ten years.

Me: And that is the masterpiece you've been working on?

X: Not at all. It was a fine stone...but ultimately, like all my former work, it was nothing more than a physical representation of something invisible. True, it made some wonderful tile, tile which has supported me and served me symbolically all this time. No, I told you...I quit working with earthly stone. When I threw my chisel into the river I never went back to get it. To be honest, I couldn't even bring myself to cut these tiles. I hired someone to do it.

Me: So what, if not stone, is this new piece of art made from?

X: It was there, on that day so long ago now, as I sat in that jail cell, that I finally found the image that has been within me even since. It was there that I began the rest of my career and it was there that I finally recognized the stone that would be the medium on which I would spend the rest of my life trying to capture this wonderful image.

Me: You have definitely piqued my interest as I'm sure the interests of the magazine's readers. Can you not elaborate some more?

X: I had destroyed my Searching only to find it had been resurrected, my earthly searching replaced by a heavenly searching. It turns out that I had been in the way all along. All those visions, those earthly emotions that screamed to be captured in stone, were gone then as well, replaced by an emotion much more divine. So too the stone I was once knew was gone. The crude rocks of the physical world, objects that once so riveted my attention were no longer needed. I had found the stone I needed, the one piece of hardened and frozen substance that now begged to be transformed into the vision I saw. By losing my life I had gained it. By turning from everything I once was I had found everything I was supposed to be. In fact the very transformation that occurred within me in that jail cell, wrought and sculpted out of my own flesh, chiseled out of the insignificant events of my life, is a masterpiece far beyond anything I could ever hope to create myself. In it is captured something invisible, something usually unseen. The only evidence of its existence is the transformation it causes in the face, the body, the life of a human being. That is the only way one knows it is real...even without directly seeing it. The stone I found at the very heart of me is just a large and bulky piece of tracing paper at this point. I'm merely projecting what is inside of me onto it.

Me: So...this new masterpiece, this invisible and unseen vision being carved onto a stone that sounds just as ethereal and mystical...does it at least have a title?

X: Yes, of course.

Me: Can you tell it to my readers?

X: It's called The Heart of God