ARTIST Poem: THE WOODEN WITNESS, by A.C. Blake

I look at him now, standing there—
this twelve-inch figure of wood,
a statue of stillness, simple and personal,
a witness to my quiet studio since the 1980s.

How many hands have shaped you, posed you,
in studios far from mine?
Did you stand in a Renaissance workshop,
where masters sketched the human form in conte crayon?

Or in Parisian garrets, guiding young eyes
to see chiaroscuro light fall on flesh and shadow?
You’ve seen centuries of art unfold:
the brushstrokes of oil on primed canvas,
the bold abstractions of modernity.

Each creator left their touch,
a memory etched deep in your grain.
There is something in your stillness,
a reflection of time itself—
not just the decades I’ve known you,
but all the time before,
in other studios, under other lamps,
among other dreamers.

You are more than a tool,
more than a mannequin.
A model for countless studies,
a silent muse for my artist’s hand.

Now you stand by my work,
beside the carved “B” from a block printer’s hand,
amid brushes, pencils, and bottles of India ink.
Sometimes, when I turn away,
you shift—ever so slightly—
a hand raised, a leg poised mid-step,
as if you, too, have a life
beyond my easel.

What stories does your polished wood carry?
What secrets lie within your joints?
I wonder if you remember them,
or if they’ve faded
like my old charcoal sketches—
shadows of what once was.

In this small studio,
you are history, you are memory.
And I never asked your name—why?
My silent companion,
will you see it all again,
long after I’ve put down
my artist’s pen?