The Self, A Portrait
Mounted antler, fox pelt, bison skull—they decorate
the spacious art studio. I’m here as a volunteer, not a
model. “I need to practice,” my friend said, “I’ll give
you: the sketch.” But have you ever tried to hold still
for four hours? Hold still. How difficult it is to hold
still these many trembling members. The artist knows
how to locate me in the light, looking first from the left
then from the right, watching me flicker in still shadows.
Stare straight ahead. Try not to watch me melt, merge
from matter to light, refracting, the upside-down eye,
spread like jam, butter on a creamy canvas leaking oil,
glitter, reflection, prismatic, color, invisible, a mirror,
transparent, opaque—are these words unclear? Forgive
the rich texture. Like electrons, because I am, I change
when I am observed. I am contingencies converging at
a vanishing point, lines on the horizon, a landscape,
a smile so subtle none can pretend to capture. This
likeness is no metaphor. In the morning, I am only a
sketch, in the afternoon I am blurry, at night I am as
stable as meaning or wet paint, a malleable potentiality
or smear of possibility. Four hours of music, audiobooks,
silence. I am the itch you cannot scratch, the quiver you
cannot subdue. Who knew that being a statue could be
such intense exercise? I ache therefore I am; almost done.
I stand from the studio chair, worried. Will it look like me?
That darling we call consciousness—always nervous, shaking.
You are a masterpiece. I am a masterpiece. The self is.
Isaac James Richards teaches first-year, honors, and advanced writing at Brigham Young University. He has placed in six poetry contests, and his poems have appeared in Amethyst Review, BYU Studies Quarterly, Constellations, El Portal, Young Ravens Literary Review, and several other venues. He is also a current Pushcart Prize nominee. Find him online at https://www.isaacrichards.com/.