Galatea Of The Sea

[Azel]

This is a story I wrote for an English class I took this summer, though the beginnings of it come from my high school creative writing. I'm not terribly happy with it -- the end especially -- so I'd like some feedback on what I could change and improve.

GALATEA OF THE SEA

I read Ovid’s Metamorphoses my junior year of high school. It was full of stories of humans transformed, becoming trees and flowers, wolves and swans. One story, that of the sculptor Pygmalion and his ivory bride, separated itself from the others in my imagination. Here was a statue brought to life! I was an artist; such an idea was something magnificent.
Soon I was thirty and wondering where all the time had gone. I was alone and feeling useless in my urban coffee shop life. I needed to reconnect with my soul, and I felt that the boundless ocean was the way to go. I could not tell my urban coffee shop friends; they would tell me to go to the museums and look at oceans there, not understanding that it was my own personal meaning of life I sought, not one dredged from the old masters. So I told them I was ill, that I required the seaside air. It was the middle of winter.

So it was in this frame of mind that I rented a weathered blue bungalow by the ocean and filled it with supplies, determined to forge a return to that artistry of my teenage years. The kitchen of the bungalow had a nook with a huge bay window facing southwest onto the beach. As I sat each morning to eat my breakfast, I could see a small figure wandering back and forth along the strand. Every so often he would stoop, one hand on his knee and the other supporting his back, to examine a bit of something lying on the beach. I could tell from the slow, deliberate way he moved that he was very old, and yet, he never missed a day of his work. Even in that glacial January, when the wind chill often dropped below zero and salt spray froze through everything it touched, I could still see the old man out walking, his head bowed against the icy gusts.

He lived alone; I was sure of this. There is a way in which lonely people may recognize others of their kind. I somehow knew that this man and I were of like mind, though I was separated from him by multiple generations and a double-glassed storm window. I found myself wondering if he had ever been in love. Had he always walked the beach alone? It was hidden in these thoughts that the story of solitary Pygmalion returned to me.

I imagined the man collecting piles of driftwood to create his own sculpted woman, as Pygmalion had done with ivory. I could see him picking through heaps of shells, carefully picked up from the high tide mark over a period of many years. Preparing for his masterpiece, the old man would discard all but the most perfect. In this way, I pictured Venus rising from the foam.
On the first day of spring, I ate near dawn. It was a clear day, unusually warm for so early in the year. I was determined to meet and speak to my mysterious old man. I dressed carefully, in a plain grey sweater and green galoshes, thinking as I did so how conspicuous my city clothes and urban manner must have seemed. I was glad then that my friends were far away, for they would surely not have let my unease slide. Thinking of them, I stepped outside.

I was early. My beachcombing Pygmalion was not yet on his rounds. I walked down to the high tide line to investigate for myself the man’s raw materials. What I found was nothing short of amazing. Over the night, the sea had deposited shells of every type: crabs, moon snails, delicate sand dollars. I even spied a small starfish amid the debris. It was then that I heard the old man approaching.

He came slowly, humming to himself a song I could not place but seemed to know all the same. He was walking straight toward me, though his eyes were downcast to the treasures at his feet. I cleared my throat, and the man looked at me. For the first time in all the weeks I had been watching him from my window, we made eye contact.

Our first meeting was a short one; I cannot recall it word for word. All I remember of it is that it felt comfortable, as if we really were two of a kind. Subsequently the two of us would walk along the beach together, nearly silent.

I learned one day, as we were looking out at the waves, that the man had lost his wife, years earlier, of a slow illness. They had moved to the seaside – from where, I know not – in her dying days, and they walked together on the beach every morning just as the old man and I did now. His wife had been a collector of shells, he said, and the shells he now took from the beach were reminders of her.

I decided then that I would construct a sculpture for this man, a Galatea out of debris as I had often imagined him doing. I began to collect driftwood and shells and beach roses alongside the old man. He did not question me. All spring I worked on my sculpture, first forming the armature from driftwood and chicken wire, then covering it in clay to form the muscles and flesh of a beautiful sea nymph. I then pressed seashells and beach roses into the wet clay, encrusting the nymph in the finest jewels of her watery realm.

I never gave the Galatea to my old man; he did not need it. When I visited his cottage one stormy afternoon, I saw to my surprise that every surface was covered in beach art. His wife had been a sculptor, more of one than I could ever hope to be. I think I pitied the old man, but now I believe him lucky to have lived surrounded by the fruits of his wife’s great love.

I am old myself now, and think of that year often. Last spring I bought a house by the sea, and now I live according to the tides. I have become the old man I used to watch so pityingly. My younger self would pity me too, but I am happy here with my Galatea of the Sea.

[sychobunny]

Quote:

One story, that of the sculptor Pygmalion and his ivory bride, separated itself from the others in my imagination.

Imagination is more something you personally created. I would use “mind”

As an artist; such an idea was something magnificent.

Quote:

Soon I was thirty and wondering where all the time had gone. I was alone and feeling useless in my urban coffee shop life.

What made urban life distasteful?

Quote:

I needed to reconnect with my soul, and I felt that the boundless ocean was the way to go.

XD I don’t like the word boundless… something kitschy about it… I’m weird.

[quote]I could not tell my urban coffee shop friends; they would tell me to go to the museums and look at oceans there, not understanding that it was my own personal meaning of life I sought, not one dredged from the old masters. [quote]Why wouldn’t they recommend a day trip? What city is this supposed to be? Many are close enough to a large body of water, that you may need to clarify which city.

Quote:

As I sat each morning to eat my breakfast, I could see a small figure wandering back and forth along the strand. Every so often he would stoop, one hand on his knee and the other supporting his back, to examine a bit of something lying on the beach. I could tell from the slow, deliberate way he moved that he was very old, and yet, he never missed a day of his work. Even in that glacial January, when the wind chill often dropped below zero and salt spray froze through everything it touched, I could still see the old man out walking, his head bowed against the icy gusts.

I like this imagery.

Quote:

I dressed carefully, in a plain grey sweater and green galoshes, thinking as I did so, how conspicuous my city clothes and urban manner must have seemed.

I think there should be a comma after so to separate the explanatory aside from the other parts of the sentence.

Quote:

I was glad then that my friends were far away, for they would surely not have let my unease slide.

It sounds so formal, let the character be more casual when they aren’t trying to impress. No one is uptight all the time. This is a period of meditation and being relaxed.

Quote:

I am old myself now, and think of that year often. Last spring I bought a house by the sea, and now I live according to the tides. I have become the old man I used to watch so pityingly. My younger self would pity me too, but I am happy here with my Galatea of the Sea.

Hmmm the end seems to be the most developed, but this last paragraph isn’t as well developed.
Could be added:
-and now I live according to the tides, combing the beach for _______
Why pity?

[Azel]

Oooh, that's some great critique! Thanks so much. I'll go through and edit/revise lots of what you suggested, for sure.