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I am nervous as a cat. Today is the day I meet him, creation confronts creator, face to face. To face? All those hours I sculpted, first the left head—Stuyvesant Fink’s, and then the right—Remington Falk’s, I longed to see the actual flesh and blood that my oil clay fashioned. Now, within the hour, Art and Life will overlap: the artist and her model, the scientist and his prototype, the gender-bending woman with the man who brought me forth.

Putting on her make-up, a token to accentuate features unambiguous—Nana’s masculinity near totally eclipsed, like the sun-illumined moon conceals its shadowed side—glances at her journal and its page of even lines, the last of which she mouths as a child recites a prayer..."the man who brought me forth."

Contemptibly or nobly (?) is what she aims to learn.

 

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