The really magical moment is not when my fingers plunge
for the first time into the soft and fresh clay,
kneading frantically, scraping, smoothing, modelling
into shapes until my eyes are in perfect accordance with my hands.
     It's not the moment either when looking back over my final smallest scrape with my finest knife on the tiniest last detail,
that I decide It’s finished, that this new statue
can continue its destiny without me.
     The really magical moment happens in spite of me:
suddenly this inert substance that I’m handling becomes alive,
the breast which had only been an image of a breast starts
to beat with the rhythm of an invisible heart, the flesh start
to tremble under my fingers, and I know, at that precise moment only, that I have been shot through by this famous Divine flow, as brief and intense as an orgasm, that I will always try to feel again.