Sometimes you feel as though a sculptor caught his subjects mid-sentence, as above where a god appears mansplaining to an unimpressed goddess. The mermen sentenced to forever support a balcony must complain constantly of stiff necks. A saint might appear empathetic to those below; a goddess indifferent. The muses atop the Opera House may be designed to inspire, but the satyr with the glaring eyes is a figure of nightmares. Is the horse heralded for its nobility or merely serving as a sign for a butcher of yore?
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Postcards from Barton Springs 