Tangled Webs

by Bibiana Krall

  * * *

  The End.

  Aspen

  “Give a girl the right shoes and she can conquer the world.” –Marilyn Monroe

  Sculpture of the Dead

  By Veronica Cline Barton

  My livelihood as a sculptor is in a unique niche—I sculpt dead things. I’m known for the lifelike qualities in the statues and busts that capture the personalities and traits of those that I sculpt, at least that’s what the sculpture connoisseurs say. My commission queue is quite filled, everyone seems to want a Greer McKay original.

  I admit, I’ve led a very privileged, charmed life here in the rugged mountains of Aspen, Colorado. My parents were wealthy, ski equipment industrialists. I was their only child, more than a bit spoiled and encouraged to pursue whatever livelihood I wanted.

  I know deep down they were hoping I’d be an Olympic skier or snowboarder with their equipment and clothing lines adorning my body as I toured round the globe. I do enjoy both sports actually, but champion quality I am not. There are two passions in my life—sculpting the dead and shoes, the higher the heels, the better.

  My first pair of heels sparkled with red sequins, I was two years old. From my earliest memories, my favorite playtime was standing at my craft table, forming wads of kiddy clay into shapes of things that had departed from this life, all while wearing my heels.

  Mice that the cat brought in, birds, bugs and even plants that had withered. I was obsessed with giving the dead a final pose to remember them by. My parents tried in vain to get me interested in other things, but to no avail. I was hooked.

  Some may not see the connection between sculpting the dead and shoes. I don’t know how to explain it well either. All I know is that when I wear a favorite pair of heels, I feel transformed, kind of like Cinderella must have felt when she first slipped on those glass pumps from her fairy godmother.

  As I walk around the rough piece of marble selected for a commission, feeling the stone beneath my hands, the heels connect me with the universe and collective consciousness of beings, a kind of artistic-inspired, nirvana worm hole if you will.

  People can search for years to find their path in life and sometimes never find their calling. For me it was easy, Oz heels and kiddy clay set me on my life quest to become a somewhat famous, sculptor of the dead, and a well-paid one at that.

  My life is not without its own tragedy. My parents were tragically killed in an avalanche while skiing in the Alps. Their company was left in the very capable hands of their shareholders.

  Since I wasn’t interested in becoming a purveyor of winter sports ware, I sold my interests. My parents’ industrious work had left me with a sizable nest egg and the beautiful glass and stone framed house I had grown up in. It was set high on the hills overlooking our chi-chi ski town.

  I had remodeled it extensively to accommodate my work and tore out the inner walls that covered up the beams and stone. The once living room had become my studio—rustic chic with an artistic twist.

  My one deviation was the conversion of two of the upstairs bedrooms into a magnificent walk-in closet that displays my extensive (and yes, expensive) heel collection under the sparkle of crystal chandeliers. It was an extravagance, but to my artistic eye, it was an elegant way to showcase and highlight the design quality of the shoes I love.

  Thanks to my talented hands, I still kind of get to greet my parents each day.

  Each morning as I drink my morning coffee in my studio, I tell their life-size statues all about my day. Sculpting them doing the things they loved best brought happiness and joy to me. Mama in a ski jump with her knees bent—I can almost hear her squealing as she flies in the air in perfect form, Papa has his arms extended, legs tilted in a perfect, snowboard tilt as he heads down the mountain trails he loved.

  I do have one caveat for the commissions I take on—there will be no gravestones. Those types of monuments give me the willies. From my perspective, they’re for the dead. My art forms are more for the living, a testament to the person that reflects their essence. On the plus side, it’s like you can have your cherished ones back at home, work or carry them with you on your travels—win, win!

  A word about my love life. Many of my society darlings in Aspen were constantly trying to hook me up with the latest movie star or snow moose visiting our chi-chi mountain town.

  The truth is, I’m taken. One month a year I head to Norway, where my #SO lives. Bjorn Larsen is a fellow sculptor of sorts on the adventurous side. He carves Norwegian, folklore characters into the fjord cliffsides. It’s dangerous work, hanging by a climbing-rope thread and using the occasional stick of dynamite to get the desired effect. Like me, he feels the energy of the rocks in the fjords like I do the Colorado marble. Speaking of which…

  When not sculpting, I spend much of my time hounding the owners of the quarry located an hour from the ski town outskirts (in high heels, of course, that always brings guffaws and side-eyes from the tradesmen). The grades of marble there are superb and sought after by many fine artists and firms.

  Stone from the quarry has been used to construct the Lincoln Memorial and Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Washington D.C. I like to tell my clients their commissions are presidential worthy, although, in the recent political climate, that selling point may have lost some of its star power.

  A word about my commissions. I would say the majority of my works bring joy to my customers---the ones that truly want a remembrance of their dearly departed loved ones. There are some commissions though, that might be for a business founder or in some cases a requirement of a will. I scrutinize these type of assignments closely, for I have had a few, ahem, returns.

  I need to tell you a bit more about the connection I have with the stone I carve. It’s not just knowing how the material will hold up for the piece I envision, it’s also knowing how the stone relates to the person I’m creating the sculpture of.

  Color, texture, veining—they all give me clues as to if a particular hunk of marble is the right one for the piece. Call it the artistic, nirvana, worm hole connection my heels and I have with the universal consciousness—it somehow guides my hands to select the optimal piece for a commission—one that will really bring the sculpture to best represent the dearly departed. It’s a gift, and sometimes, a curse.

  You see, once in a while, the finished piece freaks out its recipients. Let’s just say it’s a bit too lifelike. Turns out some of my dearly departed commissions were for people that really weren’t that nice. Most of these commissions are typically codicils in a will or last testament. It requires that any recipients of the departed’s goods can only be had if they commission a piece in remembrance and keep it in the house where they reside.

  I’ve had reports of screams and moans, turns of luck (not in a good way) and in some instances, poltergeist activity. The statue or bust supposedly moves around so that their loved, or not so loved ones always will have it in their view. It drives some of the clients cra-cra, to say the least. Most are able to confine the pieces into some hidden part of a basement or attic to minimize the noise. I even had one client who put the piece in a sound-proof vault, welded shut, closed for eternity.

  Some pieces are just too disruptive. Fortunes have been given back by recipients who just couldn’t take living with the sculptures of their dearly departed. I’ve had a few pieces returned to me with not so nice notes. I’m just the messenger, the conduit between the dead and the stone. I can’t help it if the person I carve has some afterlife shade to still throw at his or her relatives or friends.

  In those cases where one of my commissions is returned, I take it back with love and pride (no refunds, however). When I did the house remodel, I had a large glass and steel beam conservatory built, fitted with an indoor swimming pool and spa, and plenty of plantings.

  The statues, busts, and body remnants (clasped hands are a particular favorite) all find their way into my special sanctuary. It’s a funny thing, the spirits or energy or whatever it is in the piec
es don’t bother me. I guess it’s because I’m their creator of sorts, with no family ties, they can finally rest in peace.

  So, that brings you up to date with me. I can now begin to tell you the story of what was perhaps my most eccentric commission…

  I was in my living room, having my first cup of coffee and going over the day’s events with my parents (well, their statues). The doorbell rang, which was a bit odd since it was still early by Aspen standards.

  Pulling on a robe, I answered the door, expecting perhaps an early delivery.

  To my surprise, a handsome man in a pinstriped suit was standing on the porch carrying his custom, leather briefcase (exquisite leather, I have a pair of bespoke heels in the same tan).

  “Miss McKay, Greer McKay?” He spoke with an informed voice, he knew exactly who I was.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Stanley Nicholson. I’m an attorney representing the estate of Grace Williams, perhaps you’ve heard of her?”

  “Mr. Nicholson, I’m not related to anyone by that name. I think you have the wrong address.” I began to shut the door.

  I’ve had more than a few stragglers on the strange side find their way to my address.

  “Miss McKay, please.” He put his hand out to stop the door from closing for just a moment until he saw my steely eyes, and the glint from the point chisel I just happened to pull out of my robe pocket. Sculptors tend to have very strong arms and fine-tuned reflexes.

  “Mr. Nicholson, I’m very busy…”

  “I know, I should have called. This matter I represent is of the utmost importance. I must tell you about it in person, it’s one of the conditions of the codicil, you see.” He took a handkerchief from his suit pocket and wiped his forehead.

  “If I could just have a few minutes of your time to explain.” I looked at the man who was obviously getting distressed.

  Call me a softy, I nodded and opened the door for him to enter. “This way, Mr. Nicholson.” I pointed and led him over to my studio area. I figured Mama and Papa would want to listen in. I also had several other sharpened tools on my tables in case he started to do anything strange. We took a seat in the chairs by the large window that had a view out to the woods.

  “You have a lovely place here, Miss McKay. I’ll get straight to the point. As I said, I represent the estate of Grace Williams. She was a fabulous thespian in her day, a major star of film and the theater. She was also a fine dancer. She won Oscar, Emmy, and Tony awards over her career. She was a lovely lady I had the pleasure of working with for over thirty years. She recently passed away, she was one-hundred and five years old.”

  “Oh, I did see that she passed away in the news a few weeks ago. I’ve seen a couple of her films on The Old Movie Channel. She was quite lovely and funny. I still don’t understand what she has to do with me.”

  “You’re in her will, Miss McKay.”

  “Her will? I didn’t know her.” The attorney shifted in his seat.

  “I’m sorry, I’m not saying this very well. When Ms. Williams passed, her will was revealed to her current husband (number eight) and a few other recipients. She had a provision that her legs and lower torso be carved into a statue and kept in her home with her current husband in the Bel Air mansion she adored. The legs were her beauty trademark, her pride and joy. Why, she even had them insured for ten-million-dollars apiece.” Mr. Nicholson started to cough. I went to the bar next to the window and poured us a glass of water.

  “Anything stronger, Mr. Nicholson?” I held up a bottle of aquavit.

  “No, no, Miss McKay. Water will be fine.” I took the glasses over and handed him one, sitting back down in my chair.

  “Mr. Nicholson, my schedule is booked with my current commissions. I’m afraid…” The attorney held up his hand.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt. Ms. Williams specifically had you identified in the will, Miss McKay. She insisted that you, and only you, carve her sculpture.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Nicholson, I truly do. But right now, I’m quite booked.” I started to rise from the chair, our time was up.

  “Your payment for the sculpture will be twenty million dollars, Miss McKay. Ten million for each leg.” I slowly sat back down. I was used to large payments for my works, but this was off the charts. I drank a big gulp of water.

  “Twenty million dollars? Why? My commissions are usually a bit more reasonably priced, Mr. Nicholson.”

  “Stanley, please. You see, Miss McKay, Greer if I may.” I nodded. “Ms. Williams and you have a shared love of heels.” He stared down at my high-heeled, pink, boa-feather, house shoes. I couldn’t help but giggle.

  “Mr., um, Stanley. I’m flattered, really, but love of high heels doesn’t necessarily translate to selection of a sculptor.”

  “She was a huge fan of your work, Greer. She’s followed you since you started your career. She admired your empathy for the dead as well as your style sense. She said on many occasions, ‘That girl will make my legs spectacular.’.”

  “Look, Stanley. I will see if I can work this into my schedule in a few months. I’m sure the quote you receive will be much less than the figure you’ve offered. Let me speak with my business manager…” The attorney shook his head.

  “No, this must be done immediately. You see, Greer, Ms. Williams wants her leg bones in the sculpture.” My eyes bulged wide. This was a first.

  “She wants her bones in the sculpture?”

  “Yes, including the feet bones. Do you mind, could I have that something stronger now?”

  I stood and went back to the bar, glad for the distraction. I poured us both a tumbler of Bjorn’s favorite aquavit and took them over to the chairs and sat down. For just a second my eye caught my statue father’s face. I swear he looked shocked.

  “Let me get this straight—she wants her bones in the sculpture as if they’re a skeleton, surrounded by the marble?” I took a swig of the Scandinavian firewater.

  “Yes, yes, exactly. She’s had plaster casts of her legs made during her heyday. They are fine forms. She really did have million-dollar legs, Greer. Or, should I say, twenty-million-dollar legs in your case.” He laughed, taking a drink of whisky. “I know it sounds very strange, but she’s thought of everything. The plaster casts, her torso was sawed in half and cleaned professionally. You won’t have to worry about the bones having any, um, residue or germs.”

  “Stanley, I’ve never had a request like this. Is it even legal to do?”

  “Oh, yes. As long as the bones are interred and kept privately, there’s no issue. The sculpture will become her lower-torso mausoleum, so to speak.”

  I had to admit, this commission request was starting to intrigue me with design possibilities. Yet, I struggled with whether or not to accept the commission. It was a stately sum, but I had never incorporated body parts into my work.

  “I don’t know about this, Stanley. I’ve never heard of such a request. I don’t even know how I’d do it. The research on techniques alone could take some time. I don’t even know how I’d insert the feet bones in stone.” I shuddered. The prospect, though intriguing, was a bit morbid sounding.

  “Well, about the feet. There’s one more condition Ms. Williams expressed. She wants her leg and feet sculpture to be able to wear different shoes.” This time we both took a big gulp of aquavit.

  “Stanley, is this some kind of joke? Marble feet don’t lend themselves to wearing shoes.”

  “I’m no artist, Greer, but can’t the feet be constructed in some kind of flexible material— so it could bend and fit into the different shoes?”

  “I… Well,”

  He did have a point. I know it would be hard, but I felt comfortable figuring out how to insert the leg bones in the marble. The feet were a whole different matter. There were several robotics and prothesis companies that were covering their devices in skin-like materials. I suppose if they can cover metal rods they could cover bones. Why I might be able to attach the feet bones to articulated rods to make th
em easier to flex into the different shoe styles…

  “Greer, Miss McKay—is everything alright?” I broke out from my sculptor trance. Stanley’s voice was filled with concern.

  “I’m sorry, Stanley, I was just thinking about the possibilities. This is all so incredible. I’m going to need to read the copy of the will and Ms. Williams’ wishes. My attorney will want to read through the papers too. I’m not saying yes, but I will consider it. I’ll need a week to go through the papers.”

  “Of course, Greer. I have copies for you and your attorney here for you.” He pulled two folders from his briefcase. “If you do decide to go forward with the commission, you will be paid half of the fee upfront and half at delivery. The, um, bones and cast of Ms. William’s lower torso will be delivered to you post haste. Would you be working on the project here?” He looked around my studio.

  “Yes, I’d be working here. I’ll let you know at the end of the week what my decision will be. I escorted Stanley to the front door and shook his hand. He started down the porch stairs to his limo, then stopped and turned.

  “I was told to tell you she’s a nine narrow. Does that mean anything to you” I looked at him and smiled.

  “I think it means Ms. Williams and I wear the same shoe size.” Stanley grinned and continued down to his limo.

  The next week was a whirlwind of meetings with my business manager and attorney. I wanted to make sure there were no caveats or issues with this effort. I was going to make a few clients very unhappy with a delay, but twenty-million-dollar commissions didn’t come in every day.

  More important to me than the money, was the technical challenge of this project. Beautiful marble legs with human bones, and feet that would wear the actress’s shoes. The more I thought about the project, the more fascinated I became.