Jericho Parms

Lost Wax

Every time I wander through a Greek and Roman sculpture court, a mezzanine of antiquities, a hall of baroque-styles figures, I want to be disassembled: to have my arms up to my shoulders fall off as I’m taken from Florence to Pompeii or maybe end up at the Metropolitan or the Louvre having lost my legs. To be stolen, looted by strangers, and feel the tip of my nose, the cap of my knee, chip and blow away. The phantom pain of dismemberment like the rise and fall of panic and desire, like a drug I once took—a mere dose of it laced with an addictive sadness. And I feel this, not just in the company of over-life-sized statues of gods and goddesses, the late Hellenistic and half-cloaked heroes, but also before the busts of Minerva and Dionysius, funerary stones, engraved papyrus, terracotta kraters, smooth, polished capitals and finials, sarcophagi, and headless torsos. Here, these sculptures reveal nearly all of the materials the ancients had on hand: marble, limestone, bronze, gold and silver, ivory and bone. Above all they are reliefs, fragments, the embodiment of classical idealism—of memory—cast from a mold that no longer exists: only the impression remains.

Years ago, driving south on I-25 from Denver to Albuquerque. When the light shifted through the windshield of the Ford rental, I noticed a set of fingerprints like fossils in the dusty dashboard. They reminded me. It was there, on the road, that Joe and I loved each other best. In our ailing 1988 Chevy Nova, we drove the mirage of freeway, carving the snake roads of south central Colorado, where big sky meets horizon and dry plains shine like honey.

I could see Joe, his cool smirk and tender eyes, his body—long-limbed and wiry—as if he still filled the passenger seat beside me. His free hand scrawling endearments against the dash, leaning in to sing a line of the Everly Brothers song that sounded from the half-busted speaker, his tan hands kneading the flesh of my thigh, like a cat pawing its way to a familiar comfort. His crooning in my ear, “You’re something else, and you’re my girl.”

The passenger seat was empty, though, but for a dog-eared road atlas, a packet of cigarettes, and a bag of licorice I picked up from the trading post in Manitou. I hadn’t seen Joe in months, and over a year had passed since we drove together in the Chevrolet.

This was the same trip we had taken together every fall when we dodged our professors and fled campus for the adopted comforts of Albuquerque: the Sandia Mountains and Old Town adobes; neon lights along Central Avenue’s motel row; hash browns and green chili at the Frontier Diner where booths are wallpapered with busts of John Wayne.

Ahead, the road glittered, an impermeable oil spill in the distance.


Here, a Bronze statuette of Aphrodite of Knidos. Nearby, Aphrodite Anadyomen (rising) in marble, nude, with her weight on one leg as she covers herself with a fold of drapery. Aphrodite is shown undressing before (or is she dressing after?) a bath. It looks as if, originally, her arms reached forward to shield her sex in a gesture that both concealed and accentuated her form. She carries an air of modesty, but the smooth marble flesh begs to be touched. I imagine its surface cooler than the bronze, more soft, lovelier only in the way that a breast is more welcoming than a shoulder, an inner thigh more inviting than a knee.

We had met in college, each of us far from our respective coasts, and found each other 6,000 feet above sea level, at the foot of Pike’s Peak. Hailing from similar strands of bohemian upbringing and, ultimately, failed marriages, we shared a certain wariness of inheritance—we wanted the art; we feared the madness.

I was nine years old when my parents divorced and the once-cluttered walls of our Bronx apartment hollowed into silence—into separate apartments and alternate weekends—that lay the foundry for my restlessness, and in the same gesture, my admiration, because my parents were artists, after all, and young—so young.

Each fall, before the weather turned, Joe and I hitched rides down to the farmlands south of Pueblo, camping beneath the juniper trees of a deserted pasture. We rode boxcars to Denver and back again. One time, we caught big rig trucks southbound to Albuquerque until, just past the Colorado state border, we were held at a weigh station and questioned by the highway patrol. A toothpick-sucking officer who smelled of hunting season—firewood and jerky and hide—kept scolding, “This isn’t the Sixties anymore. You ever heard of the bus?” And Joe cupped my face in his hands, thumbing the crease behind my ears, fingering the slope of my nose, the tautness of skin against cheekbone, like a sculptor claiming the contour of his form.

These were the stories that fueled us. Stories filled with action and philosophizing strangers, The Dharma Bums kind of stories, adventure tales of wild hearts surveying the Wild West for new signs of life.


Here, a plaster model for Cupid and Psyche. The mortal Psyche is being rescued in the winged Cupid’s embrace after falling into a deadly sleep from which only his kiss would wake her. Cupid has just arrived; his wings are raised in the air. Though it is just a model, you can see the points where the two figures merge, how even in replica, the unblemished plaster reveals the softness of Psyche’s mortal hair, the transparency of Cupid’s wing, the plush folds of drapery, the fullness of flesh.

I would stay the night in Corrales, but decided first to stop at the Pagosa hot springs before crossing into New Mexico. At the first exit past Walsenburg, I headed west toward the San Luis Valley, a stretch of 122 miles bordering the Sangre de Cristos and the San Juan mountains that harbor the headwaters of the Rio Grande. There, the roads bear billboards of cultural eccentricity: the UFO Watchtower in Hooper, the Gator Farm just north of Alamosa on Highway 17 where owners sustain over a dozen Florida alligators with water pumped from the springs. This is perhaps my favorite leg of the lower forty-eight states: vast land of the bizarre and unusual.How many times did we swear to stop as we passed the road sign for the Watchtower and never made it? How many times did we instead pull off the road near the old candy store and, with a clear view of the tower, snack on licorice and rolled cigarettes and make love in the back seat while the Chevy engine idled and purred? That was how it worked. Ecstasy lay in experience, in the splendid distraction of desire.I may never know for sure, but I’ve come to suspect that my parents grew fatigued by the allure of rebellion, that their reality trumped their ideals, that the love itself was left behind like some over-the-hill hitchhiker who forgot to yank up her skirt as the men drove past. But there were other trespasses too, which is why I’ve grown fearful of borders—fence posts on an open range—between faith and forsakenness, between betrothal and betrayal. It is as if these terms were merely words I might play with, their letters circling my mouth like domesticated breeds of horses and buffalo caught in a corral. And perhaps we fell victim to the same miscalculation of ideals. As if the thought of stillness would lead us too close to the past, we kept moving, kept knowing each other until the frontiers of each of us became one muddled conquered land in which we lost our bearings.

Here, a Marble torso of Eros. You can see the delicately modeled surface, the sinuous curve of the torso. The original bronze resembled a young Apollo holding an arrow and poised to slay a lizard on a tree. But here, Apollo has been transformed into Eros. Look long enough and you might see the remains of wings on his back.

Perhaps Apollo captured in bronze was no more or less supple than the same figure, now Eros, in marble, though its pasty surface, its opaqueness, is somehow more pure, like milk, like a clamshell or pearl. And isn’t it odd to think that a marble surface comes from a chisel while bronze is cast from a mold? I admire the work of the slow, committed carver. The chasing and sanding like a long journey of erasure towards perfection. Surely the Greeks, and in turn the Romans, were masters—obsessively so—when it came to capturing the ideal, the kind of perfection only fit to portray gods now relegated to mythology. But what can be said of us mortals? Why do we so stubbornly aspire to such flawlessness?


At the Weminuche Wilderness area of the San Juan National Forest, I pulled into a nearby campground. The access trail to the hot springs snaked around shaded summer cabins to reach a series of terraced ponds inlaid like diamonds in the bedrock above the Piedra River. As I neared a large pool, the smell of sulfur blended with the damp hay-scented ferns.

Throughout the state, thermal wonders spring from small ponds inviting the spiritual and weary alike. Early trappers and explorers first learned of the springs from the Ute and Cheyenne. Then Kit Carson’s scouts herded the local tribes onto reservations, claimed the springs as their own, and built spa resorts. The transcontinental railroad brought the first visitors west to Glenwood in 1887 where, history buffs claim, Buffalo Bill Cody and Doc Holliday were regulars at the poker table, where Roosevelt and Taft mixed mineral water into their cocktails. Ever since, the pools have offered old-time stimulation to baby boomers, Hippies, new-age believers, tight-muscled ski bums, and high-elevation climbers—to the weak and wobbly, the lost-souls and the lonely-hearts.

Though months had passed since Joe and I parted ways, our last year together had been a slow drain, like bathwater seeping through a crack in the basin—a crack that widened with every unintelligible sigh, every misplaced word.

Spain, for example, where I fled for a semester to photograph fig trees and learn flamenco. India: where Joe spent months shooting a documentary film on the Tibetan youth in exile. Guatemala: where I travelled in the spring and got lost in the highlands of Tikal. Or Maine to California, the route Joe hitched one summer, channeling Steinbeck’s Rocinante travels with Charley. And this, to say nothing of the time we filled together: months in a trailer on the San Juan Islands, road trips pleading with the Chevy, like an asthmatic child, to make it from Seattle to New York. And Albuquerque. Always and again, to Albuquerque.

“Go” we would say to one other. At those moments our kisses landed awkwardly on the junction between the mouth and cheek, the anatomical crossroad between commitment and solitude, between stillness and embrace. The place, where bed sheets, once warm and crumpled and forgotten beneath us, stayed cool and crisp between us. This, the place we most returned to—what had Sexton called it?—the “Again and again and again” of anger and love. How many times can we cast the same pain from a single mold, before it rescinds into a distant landmark like a statue in an empty gallery or a night-fallen court.

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