February 24, 2012 § 4 Comments
As a kid/young teen, I had three pipe dreams.
1. To be a catcher on the NY Mets.
2. To be a professional ballet dancer.
3. To be a glassblower.
I knew pretty early on (like, before I was 9) that due to a number of physiological issues, Number 1 was never going to happen. I had slightly more (but not much more) hope for Number 2. That dream of being a dancer lasted a little longer, but had pretty much evaporated before I hit the teen years.
The glassblowing dream, though, behaved in strange ways. (You can read about its origins here and here.) It sort of popped its little head in the doorway every once in a while well into my young adult years. It took years-long sabbaticals, only to re-appear all refreshed and well-rested, tanned and toned (bastard) and tease me with thoughts like, “Man. If I won the lottery, I’d open a glass studio.” Or “I could have a glass studio on one side, and Rachel (my sis) could have a flower shop on the other…YEAH! That’s it! People can watch me making the vase their flowers were gonna go into!”
While glassblowing is expensive and unusual, I sensed if I could really study and practice, I just might have the ability to do this professionally. However, unlike the first 2 dreams, I was only vaguely aware that this was a real aspiration of mine until I spent a week in an intensive glassblowing class in Pittsburgh when I was 42. As you’ve probably read, though, it became clear to me over that week that this dream, too, was unlikely to pan out.
It probably goes without saying that putting a dream to bed at 42 is a lot harder than at 9 or 12 years old. My parents weren’t there to buffer the blow, like they were with ballet. I had to deal with this myself. I dealt with it by staying as far away from the glass studio as possible. Not thinking about it, not writing about it, nothing.
In the meantime, though, I did something else creative. I continued blogging on Catonsville Patch. I started my own blog. I wrote about bullies, truck-drivers, gender, politics, you name it. I started having breakfast with a friend whose writing I LOVED and we started talking about ways to get our writing out there more. In fact, it was she who pointed me towards an essay contest in the Bethesda Literary Festival. Here was the topic: “Who or what has influenced, motivated or inspired you and how has it shaped your outlook on life?”
Oh, this was too easy. Mr. Andros, of course. My childhood ballet teacher – I had written what was essentially a love letter in the form of a blog post to him last August! All about how he influenced and inspired me! I really had fun capturing his attitudes and mannerisms in prose – it was perfect for the contest! Except for the second half of the topic. I hadn’t written or thought about how he shaped my outlook on life. I had to do that (along with editing it down to 500 words…)
When I tackled that task in January, it came really easily, too. While most teachers help you succeed, Mr. Andros taught me how to fail. Rather, he taught me that limitations do not equal failure. That I was valuable as a dance student, even though I wouldn’t be a professional dancer. That it was possible to let go of that dream and keep my dignity and sense of self-worth. That accepting my limitations didn’t have to mean rejecting the art form. (Does anyone else see where I’m going with this? Who needs help with the analogy?)
If that wasn’t enough to make me glance sideways at the glass studio again, there was this. A tweet from my friend, Billy – and old buddy and music geek from camp. That’s right. Buck’s Rock camp, where all this glassblowing began. He tweeted the following: “Your biggest fear should perhaps be ignoring your true voice’s true calling. The trick is: it might be different than you think it is.” Now, he wasn’t writing to me – he was just having one of his many Oprah moments. But boy, was he speaking to me.
Enough layers for ya? Through writing, I discovered I could go back to glass. Maybe my true calling is writing, not glassblowing. Glassblowing can and should take its place with dreams which are now beloved past-times and activities in which I still engage with great joy. I mean, crap – I already know how to write well…and getting better at it is a helluva lot less expensive than getting better at glassblowing.
Don’t worry, though. I’m still getting better at glassblowing. Here’s proof. And if you didn’t feel like watching the video, here’s more proof.
February 22, 2012 § 8 Comments
At the age of 42, I got ready to take a week-long intensive glassblowing class at the Pittsburgh Glass Center after having studied and loved glassblowing since I was 10. It was going to involve 15-hour days and lots of learning, exhaustion and sweat. The end.)
My week in Pittsburgh at PGC was exactly what I’d expected. Almost.
When I say it was what I’d expected, I mean I gained lots of experience, practice, and studied the masters. I spent my afternoons and evenings trying to improve my judgement and skills. As I knew would happen, most of my pieces ended up kissing the concrete floor rather than riding back to Baltimore with me. In fact, the number of pieces I brought home added up to exactly zero.
I spent my dinner breaks searching for any scraps of meat within walking distance. That was a spectacular failure. I don’t understand it, but every place around PGC was vegetarian, or worse – VEGAN!!! I mean, this was PITTSBURGH, for god’s sake! I’m sure 7 blocks away they’d not only be okay with serving meat – they’d probably be happy roasting a Ravens fan on a spit or serving Baltimorean Tartar, but noooooo…not near the Glass Center. Anyhow, I digress…
So, I was doing everything I’d planned and been excited about. I was practicing for hours on end, I was watching amazing teachers, working with my partner, and hanging out with great glassblowing people. I saw improvement in certain basic aspects of my technique. I lost most of the pieces, but truly, that didn’t bother me. As I said before, I didn’t come to this class hoping to produce. Somehow, as the week went on, though, I felt more and more sad.
I couldn’t figure it out. What about this class was disappointing me so? Wasn’t I doing everything I wanted? I started to agonize about this by Wednesday night. In typical hyper-analytical fashion, I obsessed and began to dissect. Slowly, on Thursday, it ate away at me. I spent less time focusing on my work and more time looking at those around me. Here’s what I saw:
Most everyone else was better than I was. So many of my classmates had many things I wish I had. More muscles. More coordination. More intuitive understanding of how the glass worked. More ability to assist their partner. Smaller jeans sizes and faster metabolisms. (I mean, hey, while I’m at it, why not beat myself up about the extra weight, too?) I kept hearing this line from “A Christmas Story” over and over in my head. It was Ralphie, after he gets his Christmas theme back, and he had gotten a C+. “I was surrounded by HAPPY children who were all going to get what THEY wanted for Christmas…”
By Thursday afternoon, I was a mess. I did what any mature, well-educated, clear-thinking adult would do. I had a tantrum. It was a quiet tantrum, but as I was re-heating my piece in the glory hole, I felt tears on my cheeks and my lip kind of quivering. I excused myself, took one of the teachers aside and told him I wasn’t feeling well and had to go for a bit (and to please not make a big deal or worry) and I left. Walking back to where I was staying, I felt like Buddy the Elf after he finds out he’s not really an elf. I probably looked just as ridiculous, but I wasn’t wearing yellow tights or curly shoes. (What is the DEAL with me channeling all these boys from Christmas movies???) I cried my eyes out and took a nap.
I wish I could say it made me feel better, but I was still thinking dark thoughts as I went to that evening’s practice session. At the end of the night, the teachers sat us all down for the nightly wrap-up. Both Ben and Alex emphasized how GREAT they all thought we were doing – how much improvement they see, and they couldn’t understand how we couldn’t see it ourselves. They said they’d never met a group of students so hard on themselves, which had me looking around, thinking, “Wait, I’m not the only one who’s bummed here?” Then came the kicker. Ben said something meant to cheer us up, like, “Lighten up! You guys are in such great positions! You’re doing this for fun, you’re doing it to learn, and nothing major is riding on it. Not a job, not a grade – nothing major depends on this for you guys, so enjoy yourselves!”
What??? Nothing major depends on this??? Didn’t they realize that I had all these professional and artistic aspirations stemming from my childhood dream riding on this? That when I signed up for this class, I was hoping to find out that I had what it takes to be a glassblower professionally? That I was expecting something to click and for me to realize, “Hey! Yeah! I can totally do this with my life! Boy, Wait ’till people at the studio see my mad glass skillz when I get back to Baltimore! YES! I TOTALLY have what it takes!!!” And that all I’m discovering is that I DON’T have what it takes??? And that I don’t have the ability, time and/or money to make it so that I do? I mean, what is WRONG with these teachers, don’t they know ANYTHING?????
Oh. Wait a minute. Ooooooooooooooooooh. Now I get it. Hm. I thought, “THAT’S why I’m so bummed.” Clearly, I infused this class with more meaning than I realized. I wasn’t being honest about my expectations, or at least, I wasn’t consciously aware of them until that point. If I wanted to go to MICA for a degree in Fine Arts, I could be a glassblower. If I could turn time back and locate myself near a studio from the time I was 14 and work there 40 hours a week for 15 years, like Ben had, I could be a glassblower. If I could change my DNA so that I was taller, stronger, more naturally gifted in this art form, I could be a glassblower. But I needed to come to terms with the fact that none of those things was going to happen. And how best to do that? I did what any mature, well-educated, clear-thinking adult would do. I got blitzed. But not until the next day.
Well, my friends, Friday we had class in the morning, cleaned up the shop in the afternoon, and we all went to a place that served BURGERS and got totally wasted. Let me tell you. I bar-hopped like I hadn’t since college (sorry, Mom and Dad) and ate like the carnivore I am. Not only did I eat a bacon-cheeseburger. I ate fries. I drank appletinis. For dessert, I had alcoholic root beer floats. (Yes, you read that right. PLURAL.) A week of 15-hours a day in front of a 2500-degree furnace, a week of being away from my family, and a week of eating vegan had combined to break me and turn me into the Alaskan Bullworm from Spongebob, eating and drinking anything that had the misfortune to cross my path. It was decadent, ugly release.
Miraculously, I awoke sans hangover. I put the Ravens magnet back on my car BEFORE I left Pittsburgh (I KNOW! I’m crazy like that…) and could not WAIT to be back with my family, who thought I was cool regardless of my imagined failure. I didn’t blow glass again for eight months. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to think about it. I did, though, want to write about it. Eventually.
To be continued…stay tuned for the finale.
February 19, 2012 § 2 Comments
I did not cry. I only teared up once on the car ride…when “Our House” by CSNY came on the iPod, because it’s what I sing Leo at bedtime and he loves it. (Though it hurts my feelings, he likes the CSNY version better than mine. Rotten kid. What does HE know?) Anyhow, it was a really nice ride to Pittsburgh – June, great weather, music, solitude, blah, blah, blah.
I wrote about the 30+ years that led up to this June ride in my last post. In case you haven’t read it, or don’t want to, here’s the short version.
At the age of 42, I got ready to take a week-long intensive glassblowing class at the Pittsburgh Glass Center after having studied and loved glassblowing since I was 10. The end.
I pulled up to the efficiency I rented for the week and unloaded – sorta REALLY feeling like a college student in that I realized I’d be living in a basement apartment for a week, like I did my entire sophomore year in college. Two tiny windows, one filled up with an air conditioner and the other basically looking up at the sidewalk. No matter, though – I was only going to sleep and shower there and very little else.
My expectations and hopes for the class were very simple. I wanted to get better at the basics. I wanted the process to become more intuitive for me, as in, knowing more of what step comes next all by myself. To become more independent as a glassblower. I was perfectly happy with the idea that I wouldn’t come home with much actual glass – that practicing fundamentals over and over again is not glamorous, nor does it yield a high volume of finished pieces. I just wanted the practice and the experience. And to get better.
Next morning (Monday) began the real adventure. The class met and got to know each other for a bit. Everyone in it seemed great. They ranged in age from 20+ years my junior to maybe 10 years my senior. A few full-time college art students, one high school student, one guy who manages a glass studio elsewhere, and some recreational amateurs like me.
The teachers, young guys in their 30s, Ben Cobb and Alex Stisser, had worked together for a time in Tacoma at the Museum of Glass. Ben is still there, and Alex became a corn farmer in Idaho, or Iowa, or Ohio, or Ottowa or something. Ben seemed like the crunchy kind of guy who might wear those weird shoes with toes, and Alex was clean-cut and looked like he voted Republican. They both had young families, and were incredibly nice and approachable. Then the work began. For four days straight, this would be my schedule:
8:15 – Breakfast at vegetarian bakery place across the street from studio.
9 am – 12 pm – Watch Ben and Alex making basic and advanced glass pieces and narrating/lecturing/teaching as they do. None of us 14 students feels intimidated by their insane skill. Not one. Nope. Noooooot at all.
12 pm – 1 pm – Lunch in the conference room (was brought in by different restaurants around town.)
1 pm – 5 pm – Partner with another student (really nice college girlie) and work on our skills. Teachers walk around helping when needed.
5 pm – 6 pm – Dinner at one of the vegetarian/vegan places within walking distance.
6 pm – 10 pm or midnight – Casual practicing with our partners – teachers still around, but less formal instruction going on. We are free to not attend these evening sessions, but most of us do. Sometimes in these evenings, the teachers do amazing demos of their own types of work. Here is some of Alex‘s work from his website.
Here is some of Ben‘s work from the Traver Gallery website.
None of us 14 students feels intimidated. Not one. Nope. Noooooot at all.
(Yup. Sorry. To be continued…again…it’s just too much to fit into one blog post.) 🙂
February 14, 2012 § 2 Comments
“This is gonna be so much FUN!!! It’s gonna be like you’re going to COLLEGE again!” said my best friend. “I KNOW!” I said back. “Except it’s gonna be 10 hours of class a day!”
“Oooh, I reeeeaaalllly hope you do a blog post on this,” said my editor at Catonsville Patch. “You KNOW I will!” I said, doing a happy dance in my head.
“Better take that Ravens magnet off your car…” warned the more protective ones I told. “As soon as I cross over the state line…” I laughed.
That was back in June. First week of the kids’ summer vacation, I left them with the huz and drove to Pittsburgh. Some of the more knowing and analytical of you might consider this a fight or flight response to the kids being home, but I promise, it was not. It was me throwing myself into a week-long intensive glassblowing class at Pittsburgh Glass Center.
I began glassblowing when I was 10 as a staff brat at a summer camp called Buck’s Rock, where my dad was musical director. It’s a crunchy camp for older kids (when I attended, youngest camper was 12, though the age has since been lowered) wherein they have the freedom to explore whatever musical and/or artistic pursuits they want. Kind of like a Montessori approach to summer camp. I chose glass. I studied it every summer until I was 16, when I was a JC (junior counselor) in the shop.
Anywho, in high school and college, I dabbled…happening upon a guy who had a studio close to campus where I could rent some time. Then (to sum up…) graduate. Marry. Move to California. Move to Virginia. Teach social studies for a few years. Become pregnant. Move to Catonsville. SAHM gig for next 12 years. Neither a blowpipe nor a glory hole crossed my path any of those years. (Yes. There are lots of dirty jokes in glassblowing.)
Except every so often, I’d say to myself, “If money were no object, I’d get really good at glassblowing.” (It’s important to note I didn’t say “again” – I was well aware I was never “really good.” I was also aware, though, that I had potential.)
Maaaaayyyyyyybe approaching 40 had something to do with this, but a couple of years before that milestone, I decided I had nothing to lose by abandoning the “if I won the lottery” approach. I googled the glassblower I knew in college. Score! He was still in Baltimore! Even better, he had been experiencing success and opened a gorgeous studio in an awesome part of town, with a great staff of young talent helping him along and teaching classes.
I got back in touch (he remembered me) and sort of slowly got back on the bicycle, as it were. Over the course of the next four years I took group classes for beginners (it had been 20 years), then group classes for intermediate students, then private lessons. My teacher and I decided I was ready for the next step. This brings us up to last June, when I screeched my minivan wheels out of Baltimore for hostile Steelers country. (It wasn’t really that brave, as this was baseball season. But it makes me feel bad-ass, okay?)
To be continued…