A few women in the art studio building paint,
but Anne Whitney is the only one with plaster dust
often embedded in hands that are almost as white.
She invites Edmonia to join her at the Boston Athenæum.
Tall shelves of books and replicas of Roman gods
and Greek goddesses turn people quiet.
Edmonia has never seen sculptures this big,
or oil paintings, with much half-hidden in layers.
She prefers the way sculptures keep important lines
on the surface.
The women are rounded and smooth.
The men’s muscles look strong.
Some statues have missing arms,
but no one reaches as if in need
or shows signs of bruises or boredom.
Edmonia admires them all, but Anne says,
We have enough men on pedestals and goddesses of love.
The courageous don’t always wear crowns. Someday
I’d like to sculpt a beggar, and make her look beautiful.
People don’t want statues of someone wondering
what to have for supper, Edmonia says.
They don’t pay for flaws and secrets.
A true artist can’t think about commissions first, Anne says.
Edmonia knows she means an artist such as herself
with a father who provides for her roof and food.