I walk into the studio, and she’s already there
crouching over a worktable full of metal forms
and globs of plasticene clay.
The Auteur talks so quickly and so imperiously
that I almost don’t dare divert my attention,
but the animator catches it
when she glances up, hair in face
and takes me in. She sizes up my proportions.
She’s thinking how she would mold me,
articulate me, but then she looks me in the eyes.
Looks, holds the look, breathes out slowly.
I can’t breathe.
There’s so much recognition in her look.
She sees my yearning for artistic perfection.
She sees my uncertainty.
She sees that I’m enchanted by her,
but she breaks away,
turns back to her table
and thwacks at a hunk of red clay
as if it is particularly unruly
and she is determined
to bring it to heel.
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