Rodin worked with terrifying intensity, shaping wet clay as though he were wrestling directly with human thought itself. I stood nearby photographing the transformation while another version of me posed for the emerging sculpture. Slowly, the figure began resembling not only The Thinker, but also an aging reflection of myself. Chunks of clay fell constantly to the floor, giving the strange impression that the statue was simultaneously being created and eroded by time. Rodin barely spoke during the entire session. His hands seemed to understand something about mortality that words could never fully express. Watching him sculpt felt less like observing art and more like witnessing the anatomy of contemplation.
