androgyne

The story of Tabula Rasa - From rubble to a masterpiece.

The ceiling of the great temple was cracked, damaged and leaking water. Truth is that it had been this way for many years. The people of the city ignored the remnants of the building that had been hastily finished and poorly constructed. She was a lost cause, and if the Governors had already not decided to demolish the building she may have collapsed in on herself anyways, content in an end that seemed better than life. Tarnished, sodden timber and broken marble in a place where a temple was originally planned seemed destined to be her fate.

I say could because as I, an architects apprentice lobbied the board of Governors hard, I won a reprieve for this building. It could be restored, and it should be restored. My plans were ambitious, probably a mix of bravado at my first big project and confidence at my skills. I was workmanlike and professional, I had a natural eye for detail and I was a talented plaster, painter and artist. It was more than this though, I felt like I had a bond with this building. I had watched with curiosity as the building was constructed, and dismay as she fell apart. I didnt only have big plans, I felt a connection. Yet, the professional in me knew what was needed. No artificial quick cover work. I needed to start almost again, strip her to the timer frames. I needed a blank slate, a tabula rasa.

As with all these things however, once I began work it dawned on me that I had not really imagined the true extent of the damage. Once I was inside her main room I realised that vandals had defiled her. The ceiling, the original masterpiece was bowed and depressed. It seemed to symbolise the entire building. I ran my fingers across every wall. Every crack told me a story about her that I could never truly imagine. The plaster flaked in my hands and the scale of my task became more and more evident. Every broken hope and shattered window spoke to me, and as I listened I planned her great revival.

The first day was the hardest. I had to be brutal. I used the hammer and the chisel, deep and powerful strikes that shook at her foundations. I wondered if I was being too harsh from time to time but I was determined and resolute. I had a vision, a grand vision. The next week was somewhat easier, and the next month less difficult too. I began to repair her perfect frame. I began to smooth her surface with my calloused hands. I toiled and perspired and finally she began taking form. After 3 months the walls were steadier, the windows to her soul were no longer shattered, and now when I looked into her heart I saw the refracted light dance around inside her. I looked around, I was pleased. I looked up though, and I sighed. Sure, she no longer was on the edge of willing collapse, and I had superficially repaired the damage of natural downpours and savage vandalism, but she was not yet special.

I contemplated the next step for many days. I slept inside her, I got deep inside her. I began to feel a deep emotional connection to my work in progress. I began to truly love my masterpiece, but I could not yet fully commit to it. I assembled massive scaffolding and spent many days feeling on top of the world as I worked high above the floor. Two years passed before it was complete. Two years! Literal blood and sweat and tears. It was traumatic at times as I wrestled with her. At times it felt like a battle. Other days my brush flowed easily as she almost inspired my every moment. I barely slept anyways, but sometimes I stayed awake through the night. Working harder than I ever had, with the only reward the potential to show her off from an increasingly curious public. It was all the reward I really needed and it inspired me in a way I had never been inspired before. This wasnt just years worth of work; this project had become my muse.

Finally, I could see the beauty emerging. I could see the damage not just being covered up, but repaired and improved upon. When I removed the scaffolding I felt humbled by what I had achieved. I surveyed my work with a mixture of relief, pride and joy. I had done it! What had been on the edge of collapse was now a work of art. The temple had been neglected and damaged, but I had repaired it. No, I had made it! I had taken this potential and started anew, a blank slate that had become the pride of my life. She truly was.

When the day came to show her to the world she was received with awe. She was beautiful. I was liked. For the first time in my life I had the gratitude of those who had seen her falling apart. A misanthropic misfit had made a masterpiece from a shambles. The people looked up at her and saw my signature. I looked down on them, imagining I was up there on her pedestal, the pedestal I had made for her and placed her upon. And as the people applauded I smiled. I felt because of her. I felt pride and happiness and a connection I had never felt with flesh and blood. The up and coming architect had become an artist. A great artist with His great masterpiece.

The people wondered how such a misfit had managed to get his hand on this project in the first place. It is easy to see beauty when it is right there in front of you. But I had seen beauty when nobody else did. I saw potential when everybody else walked by without caring, barely noticing the unedifying prospect of crumbling marble and a diseased foundation. And me? I just stood there, arms crossed defensively. For I knew what she could be. I made her what she is today. The people can stand in awe, but only I know what it took, the emotion I had to pour into it. That is the reward I envisaged years ago, and as I survey the people standing in awe at my work, that is the reward I hoped for. Pride. Passion. Love.