Unaccepted

This is “Soldier in State,” one of George Gray Barnard’s sculptures inspired by World War One sacrifices, medieval burials, and shards of a cathedral in France.

“You’re not going to take it?”  I asked.

      “No, Mr. Barnard.  I cannot accept this one. The rest of your works, your Cloisters for the Metropolitan have been lovely, pure and true to their styles, and I will gladly buy those one from you.  But this…” Rockefeller gestured a wide hand to my sculpture: The Soldier in State.  The face shown sleeping and smooth, otherwise almost shrouded by a coat, the fabric-like clay American flag covering the dead body, representing medieval honor, and the mud-crusted boots—it was supposed to honor the dead.  What did the man think I was trying to do?  Slander them?  The inspiration, or rather nightmare came to me in France.   When I was riding my bicycle over a bridge, running over a piece of rock, but it wasn’t just any old piece of rock. This was a stone fragment, cracked and fallen from one of the cathedrals, separated from the rest of its glorious structure. Just as this soldier was separated from his glorious army. All of this, all of that sculpting to make something good out of nightmares come to life?  And it’s unaccepted?  

      This one I thought surely would be the first to be awed at and practically stolen from me by John D. Rockefeller, if not bargained for a good price.   How could it not be accepted?

      He was still waiting for a verdict to come to mind on what exactly “this” was. “This…is devastating.  The world’s already been through enough after the war.”

      I wanted to protest but then I looked up from my work of art, still shining from its construction and saw little starry tears, reflecting the light that shone upon the dead sculpture, pooling in the man’s eyes.  It was all he could do to blink them away and they still came down his face, slowly and steadily but he looked at me as though they were not there. 

     I said nothing as I thought of all the memorials I’d already seen, the main reason this sculpture existed.  Why so many of my sculptures existed and the ones most often not accepted by people like this man.  But then I thought not for myself but for this man.  What had this man seen?  Perhaps he has been less fortunate than I.  “Of course.  Thank you for your business,” I finally responded. 

      He nodded, still unable to say a word.  It was devastating wasn’t it?  But it was the truth and it was more real for some people than it was for others.  I at least hoped that whoever he lost, whoever he knew, whoever he did or didn’t get to say goodbye to, that they were honored. Truly, honor was my aim.