ABSTRACT
She stands there before him, immobile and yet so lifelike. He believes that what he is seeing is a statue of his late wife, Hermione, who he lost some 16 years ago. A loss that he caused by his irrational jealous rage. It was a relentless force that ultimately hounded her into an early grave. But none of this is evident in the almost other worldly face that now confronts him. How to describe it? Serene? Indifferent? Perhaps, to a statue, these states are ultimately the same. A statue is a paradoxical creature. It is there and not there. There like a chair, but not there like a person. It occupies space, but nothing occupies it. There is no consciousness, memories, hopes, dreams, loves, fears, beliefs, questions. If anything, it is a frozen moment completely dependent upon the ability of its sculptor to try to capture one simple expressive trait. The usual default expression ends up existing somewhere between the indomitable and the implacable. And yet, what is it about this trick of stone and light that can make one think mute matter might actually, if properly prompted, speak? And if, in this case, it could—would it forgive this husband, the once great Leontes, for what he has done? For all the ruin he has left behind him? The statue remains silent to this, its eyes never quite meeting his ever-intent gaze; it is focused elsewhere, toward a horizon just beyond him. If he could only make eye contact, as if an exchange of glances could do the magic trick and bring this statue to life. After all, it seems just on the verge of such a miraculous transformation.
