Lila's Sculpture
In a small village renowned for its artisans, there lived a cautious sculptor named Elias. His workshop was immaculate—tools perfectly aligned, chisels meticulously sharpened, and stone blocks neatly stacked like obedient soldiers. Elias was known far and wide for his precise carvings; every line was clean, every face symmetrical. But his work, though admired, was never truly loved. People would say, "It's perfect," but their voices lacked the excitement reserved for great art.
One day, the village was abuzz with news of a competition: The Wild Muse, an annual contest where artists from all over the region would come to showcase their most inspired works. The prize wasn't just gold, but the honor of being declared the most creative mind of the year. Elias decided he would enter; after all, he was an accomplished sculptor. Why wouldn't he win?
He chose a block of pure white marble, flawless in every way. He sketched out his design meticulously—a serene angel, wings tucked behind her back, gaze directed downwards. It was safe, and it was beautiful. He began chiseling, each stroke calculated, each fragment of stone removed with care.
While Elias worked, a young artist named Lila set up her own station right next to him. She was the opposite of Elias—her workspace was a chaotic explosion of tools, brushes, clay, and unfinished sketches scattered everywhere. She had chosen a rough, imperfect block of granite. Elias couldn't help but glance at her mess and mutter to himself, "How careless."
Lila, catching his judgmental look, grinned and said, "You can't make a splash if you're afraid to get wet, Elias."
He ignored her and continued his precise work.
Days passed, and Elias' angel took form. It was flawless, just as he'd planned. But each time he stepped back to admire it, something gnawed at him. It felt lifeless. The stone was perfect, yet the figure seemed trapped, like it was bound by the very marble it emerged from.
Meanwhile, Lila's sculpture was…wild. She had hacked away with abandon, sometimes with her chisel, sometimes with her bare hands. The stone was jagged in places, smooth in others. It didn't resemble anything Elias had ever seen—a twisted, abstract form that seemed to be both dancing and collapsing at once. It was raw, and even a bit ugly. But it had a strange vitality to it, a kind of magnetic energy.
"Careful, you might ruin it," Elias remarked, half-concerned, half-condescending.
Lila laughed, sweat dripping from her forehead. "You ruin it the moment you start being careful," she said. "That's when you stop creating and start copying."
Elias felt a pang of defensiveness. What did she know about sculpting? He had years of experience, awards, patrons! He pushed aside his doubts and focused on his angel, polishing it until it gleamed like glass.
Finally, the day of the competition arrived. The village square was packed with spectators. One by one, the artists presented their works. Polished vases, painted murals, embroidered tapestries—each piece was applauded politely.
When it was Elias' turn, he unveiled his angel. The crowd gasped. It was stunning, pristine, perfect. But the applause, though loud, faded quickly. There was admiration, yes, but no spark of wonder in their eyes.
Then came Lila's turn. She pulled away the tarp, revealing her wild, untamed sculpture. The crowd fell silent. Murmurs spread. Was it beautiful? Was it ugly? No one could decide. It was strange, unsettling. But one thing was undeniable: it was alive. It seemed to shift as you looked at it, the raw texture catching the light in unexpected ways. It didn't look like anything anyone had ever seen before, but it *felt* like something everyone had experienced—chaos, joy, pain, freedom.
The judge, a wise old artist with a graying beard, stood before both sculptures. He looked at Elias' angel, then at Lila's chaotic masterpiece. He paused, then pointed to Lila's sculpture. "This," he declared, "is the winner. It is not perfect, but it is honest. It took risks. It dared to be something new."
The crowd erupted into applause. Lila beamed, but instead of looking smug, she looked…relieved, like she had held her breath for days and could finally exhale.
Elias felt his face burn. He wanted to argue, to say that his angel was technically better. But he couldn't. He knew the truth: he had been careful. He hadn't created something new; he had created something safe.
As the crowd dispersed, Lila came over and offered her hand. "You're a great sculptor, Elias," she said kindly. "But you're holding yourself back. Next time, try making something you might ruin."
He took her hand, feeling a smile tug at his lips despite the sting of defeat. "You're right," he admitted. "Next time, I won't be so careful."
And for the first time in a long while, Elias felt excited—not for the next perfect sculpture he would carve, but for the imperfect one he might discover along the way.
One day, the village was abuzz with news of a competition: The Wild Muse, an annual contest where artists from all over the region would come to showcase their most inspired works. The prize wasn't just gold, but the honor of being declared the most creative mind of the year. Elias decided he would enter; after all, he was an accomplished sculptor. Why wouldn't he win?
He chose a block of pure white marble, flawless in every way. He sketched out his design meticulously—a serene angel, wings tucked behind her back, gaze directed downwards. It was safe, and it was beautiful. He began chiseling, each stroke calculated, each fragment of stone removed with care.
While Elias worked, a young artist named Lila set up her own station right next to him. She was the opposite of Elias—her workspace was a chaotic explosion of tools, brushes, clay, and unfinished sketches scattered everywhere. She had chosen a rough, imperfect block of granite. Elias couldn't help but glance at her mess and mutter to himself, "How careless."
Lila, catching his judgmental look, grinned and said, "You can't make a splash if you're afraid to get wet, Elias."
He ignored her and continued his precise work.
Days passed, and Elias' angel took form. It was flawless, just as he'd planned. But each time he stepped back to admire it, something gnawed at him. It felt lifeless. The stone was perfect, yet the figure seemed trapped, like it was bound by the very marble it emerged from.
Meanwhile, Lila's sculpture was…wild. She had hacked away with abandon, sometimes with her chisel, sometimes with her bare hands. The stone was jagged in places, smooth in others. It didn't resemble anything Elias had ever seen—a twisted, abstract form that seemed to be both dancing and collapsing at once. It was raw, and even a bit ugly. But it had a strange vitality to it, a kind of magnetic energy.
"Careful, you might ruin it," Elias remarked, half-concerned, half-condescending.
Lila laughed, sweat dripping from her forehead. "You ruin it the moment you start being careful," she said. "That's when you stop creating and start copying."
Elias felt a pang of defensiveness. What did she know about sculpting? He had years of experience, awards, patrons! He pushed aside his doubts and focused on his angel, polishing it until it gleamed like glass.
Finally, the day of the competition arrived. The village square was packed with spectators. One by one, the artists presented their works. Polished vases, painted murals, embroidered tapestries—each piece was applauded politely.
When it was Elias' turn, he unveiled his angel. The crowd gasped. It was stunning, pristine, perfect. But the applause, though loud, faded quickly. There was admiration, yes, but no spark of wonder in their eyes.
Then came Lila's turn. She pulled away the tarp, revealing her wild, untamed sculpture. The crowd fell silent. Murmurs spread. Was it beautiful? Was it ugly? No one could decide. It was strange, unsettling. But one thing was undeniable: it was alive. It seemed to shift as you looked at it, the raw texture catching the light in unexpected ways. It didn't look like anything anyone had ever seen before, but it *felt* like something everyone had experienced—chaos, joy, pain, freedom.
The judge, a wise old artist with a graying beard, stood before both sculptures. He looked at Elias' angel, then at Lila's chaotic masterpiece. He paused, then pointed to Lila's sculpture. "This," he declared, "is the winner. It is not perfect, but it is honest. It took risks. It dared to be something new."
The crowd erupted into applause. Lila beamed, but instead of looking smug, she looked…relieved, like she had held her breath for days and could finally exhale.
Elias felt his face burn. He wanted to argue, to say that his angel was technically better. But he couldn't. He knew the truth: he had been careful. He hadn't created something new; he had created something safe.
As the crowd dispersed, Lila came over and offered her hand. "You're a great sculptor, Elias," she said kindly. "But you're holding yourself back. Next time, try making something you might ruin."
He took her hand, feeling a smile tug at his lips despite the sting of defeat. "You're right," he admitted. "Next time, I won't be so careful."
And for the first time in a long while, Elias felt excited—not for the next perfect sculpture he would carve, but for the imperfect one he might discover along the way.
(This story is donated to the public domain.)
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He/Him/His
"Wisdom begins with wonder." - Socrates
"Learning happens thru gentleness."
"Wisdom begins with wonder." - Socrates
"Learning happens thru gentleness."
"We must reinvent a future free of blinders so that we can choose from real options." David Suzuki
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