Today I became a sculptor. Like Rodin, only not as keen.

Today I sculpted a voluptuous nude. The life model had a downturned mouth that turned down further when she smiled, making the top half of her face (eyes happy) disagree with the bottom half of her face (petulant sulk). She wasn't voluptuous. Capturing the folds in her flesh demanded determined close-up inspections. It (the sculpting experiment) has not been good for my nails, my ego, or my mood. It might serve some purpose at Christmas if I need a blunt object with which to bludgeon myself to death, or a blunt object with which to disappoint (ie. gift) my mother. I feel obliged to finish my course on principle. The principle being that I paid for it. I have heard said you cannot polish a turd* and now I must spend two days disproving this theory.[*where turd = small model of militantly unattractive naked hippy in foetal position]