Would you buy a used sculpture from this man?

Highlight of the day was a lunch with my good friend André who, you might remember, in addition to being a genuine top banana, is also an accomplished sculptor. Following our dim sum fest, he told me he had just had one of his pieces mounted and that it had, he thought, inspired him to go back to sculpting and to exhibit once again. He’s 80, so he wasn’t sure he’d be doing it that often. He said something, however, that resonated. “Whenever I see a piece of stone,” he said, “I just have to touch it. I get a butterfly or two in my stomach. I want to see what it is inside it, what I can transform it into.”
 
It hit a note. I feel that way about books and I used to have that same feeling about writing. Maybe it’ll come back: it might just be the sort of inspiration I need. He showed me his sculpture in the boot of his car: I touched it. It brought to mind a wave, caught in mid-crash. I told him. He nodded.
 
“It’s my life,” he said.
“Well, you are very good at it,” I said.
“No,” he said. “This sculpture. It is my life.”
 
I’m still not sure how it represents his life – we both had to rush off before we had chance to delve into it – but it’s a topic for the next time we meet.
 
Afternoon, I managed to get work done and sit in lugubrious silence as Liverpool beat Leipzig away in the Champions League. The I played cards with the others, drove Ottawacker Jr. to his football practice, came home, poured a glass of wine and fell asleep in the chair. I blame Arne Slot.