Mild Case of Necrophilia

Let's talk Pygmalion. Ovidian sculptor. From Cyprus. Falls for this sculpture he carves from ivory. Eventually, Venus (what an incredibly sexy name) takes pity on Pygmalion and brings the statue to life. They copulate and produce two offspring, women, human: Paphose and Metharme, names to which, historians steadfastly agree, Cypriot middle school was not terribly kind.

On a serious note (and what is not serious?), I mention this find because I think Shelly's account of a artist/artwork relationship much more devastating and far more realistic than Ovid's. Frankenstein's monster rebukes him, kills those he holds dear, and leads him on a chase that literally costs the troubled doctor his life. To see creation turning on its creator, one need go no further than the mall. Or any church. Or the art museum.

There is something about the artwork that makes the artist both wonder in awe and recoil in terror: its autonomy. It is not uncommon that the creations we make far outdo ourselves; that is, though they come from us, they can be far more powerful and catastrophic in singular capacities than ourselves (i.e. the atom bomb, the printing press, the machine gun, the song "Nobody Does it Better" by Carly Simon).

We cannot be taught to ask the question:

Can God sin? Is that sin, in fact, us? If we do ever get around to asking it, it is certain that no teacher can have asked it for us.

JMH