Michelangelo Buonarroti
David

Stare at it intensely, actually gaze at it. It’s hard to find such perfection. Try to fly above the murmur of people. Rise above the whisper of curiosity and overcome the paper-thin cunning of the sneaky snapshots. Lend her your eyes. For an indefinite period. Travel beyond the boundary of your visual cone.

...I am here, relatively calm and waiting. The sling is laid on the shoulder at the right height. I run no risk of letting it slip from my hand. Light, it steals a strip of skin from the light. I almost don’t feel it. I am thinking of something else...

Observe the detail of the gaze. It seems to want to pierce the horizon, split a target. A pinch of unease makes his eyebrows furrow. Unease mixed with a sharp scrutinizing sense. It seems he is concentrating on something, measuring the tension, evaluating the course of action. Which is not easy.

...do not be too sure of yourself, giant. I feel the cold of your shadow on the tip of the most exposed foot but I do not allow terror to dethrone courage. I am not too sure either. Never underestimate the enemy. You can never know who you are facing. With your size, you could crush me with the shockwave of one of your roars, but...don’t be so sure of it, giant...

The torso relaxed, the left leg following it. The left foot just resting on the ground. The body’s weight is concentrated on the right leg with tense muscles and the gastrocnemius taut. The ankle is compressed even though it is resting on the pronounced essence of a shrub. Knowing what he will do, that leg will suggest to the barely resting hand to load.

...you advance and I do not move. Your shadow is covering me, and the weight of your steps intensifies my anxiety. What will you do once you reach me? Who will strike first? I can’t sweat despite the tension. Something tells me I can make it. I certainly can’t let you get too close, but I’m too busy predicting your move. So?...

The right hand. Beautiful. The most beautiful detail of the entire sculpture. As I was saying, just resting on the strong leg, it hides the stone that will kill Goliath. The impression, for fatalists and the imaginative, is that of letting it drop. It doesn’t grasp it, it seems to want to abandon it to then hook the right foot to the ground and push off with a pirouette toward escape. The fingers are strangely relaxed and the arm flexes slightly backward. The announcement to arm the sling and then strike. The veins enveloping the wrist and fingers are swollen due to blood lying too long in that position. It just lacks breath. Magnificent!

...this stone is melting in my hand. Slowly it seems to turn into clay that I do not intend to shape. This stone is hot, but I have no intention of dropping it. I feel it on that strip of thigh moistened by its heat. I hope to catch you off guard, giant. I hope you perceive nothing, that you don’t notice the presence of a stone in my hand. I hope to appear unarmed, helpless, vulnerable to your presumptuous sneer. Now it’s time to act before it’s too late. One chance to annihilate you and I can only appeal to my skill in handling the sling. A few seconds are left, and I hope to catch you by surprise, to surprise your intentions, to conquer your reaction. Come on, clown!