Lord of the dance

The big-whig Hindu god is Shiva, creator and destroyer of the universe. So many of the museums we visit have such extensive Asian collections that we go looking for Shiva images and sculptures to add to our mental catalogue. (Well, I do. Matt is partial to fertility images in Japanese lions. Men.)

So it was no surprise when, on a recent guided tour, our docent Nan led us right up to a Shiva sculpture that is, oh, about a thousand years old. She pointed out Ganges, the river god, hiding out in Shiva's hair, and Shiva's decidedly un-PC foot squashing a midget as a symbol of stamping out ignorance. In this particular sculpture, as in so many others, Shiva is cast as lord of the dance, as he whirls and twirls the creation in and out of existence in a continuous, cyclical frenzy.

Every teeny, tiny detail is just gorgeous. Bells, birds, and all manner of b-words set my little brain on fire and gave me anguish. I couldn't decide if I wanted to look at him or scribble notes about him. I knew time was short. Nan would soon lead us to the next work of art, and then what would I do?

I think the best emotion we experience is the simultaneous flood of joy and pain. It's like that moment of enormous pride when your child walks across the stage to receive his diploma, and you know in an instant that what he's learned -- really learned -- is that he no longer needs you and you feel such relief and grief in a single instant. And then you see his whole life like a heap of puzzle pieces on the dining room table -- all of the tragedy and joy you know will make him a man, but only if he fits all of it together for himself -- and all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut and clasp your hands together and beg God to stop (or is it never stop?) the swell in your heart.

That's how I felt looking at Shiva. I could see the artist lovingly and carefully molding the wax before she covered it with clay and then destroyed the wax by melting it in the kiln. I saw her tiny fingers and nails and teeth and knife shaping Shiva. Did she think about how, just like Shiva, she was destroying exquisite beauty, only to make something much finer?

And what about the back of Lord of the Dance, which is just as lovely and intricate as the front? Whom was she honoring when she took such care, for surely she knew few would take the time to admire it?

And the question that made my throat catch as I took Matt's hand and followed Nan down two floors to Greek antiquity:

If the Artist turns the sculpture of my life inside out, revealing the contours of the back as plainly as the front, is it still a thing I would want anyone to see?