I am neither the first nor the last person to love stone.
Pygmalion, who shunned the flaws of the women he met, set out to create a sculpture that was so inimitable that he couldn’t help but shower her with unadulterated adoration even before benevolent Aphrodite brought stone to life. The statue appeared to glow like an ember was lit from within. Pygmalion, afraid to hope, thought it must surely be nothing more than an alluringly wistful dream.
Florence is a city of stone, not of delicate ivory, but of heavy grays and tired browns. It doesn’t matter. Seen through my Pygmalion eyes, she is alluring beyond reproach. Bathing in the distinctly titian laced glow of the setting Tuscan sun, a flush of warmth blankets the valley in the momentary realization of a dream. Too quickly the embers fade to an abyss of cold blue twilight, and all that remain are Dante’s beloved stars.
To whatever or whomever you love, cent’anni.