Lesson 1

“There are no mistakes or failures, only lessons” – Denis Waitley

My first real lesson started in an unexpected way, reminding me of something I have learned over and over again in my life.  Mistakes happen. 

I called Annette on the way to my lesson to tell her I was going to be 5 or 10 minutes late.  Most people probably wouldn’t think twice about this, but in my world, five or ten minutes can mean the difference between life and death, and being five or ten minutes late is unacceptable, so I call.  She picked up on the stress in my voice, and, although unbeknownst to me, she was dealing with her own personal disaster, she told me that art is supposed to be fun and not something I need to stress about.  She was right, and in the last few minutes of my drive, I tried to relax and get in the proper frame of mind. 

When I arrived, relaxed and rearing to go, it was clear that my teacher had turned her own shade of frazzled.  “I’ve got a bit of a problem,” she declared.  She had accepted a commission to make pieces for a charity to be given as a thank you to the charity's major donors, but something had gone wrong during the final process, and the pieces were showing signs of stress.  It wasn’t anything that could be seen with the naked eye, but she knew they weren’t perfect and, therefore, she was not about to let them out of her studio.  Through an optical filter, she showed me the imperfections, betraying themselves only as polarized light emanating from the designs. The pieces might be fine, but they would be susceptible to breaking if left as is.  The benefit dinner was just 48 hours away.  To fix the problem, the pieces were going to have to be re-annealed, which meant slowly reheating them to a temperature just hot enough to relieve the stress without actually allowing the pieces to melt.  Given the time constraint, it had to be dealt with before my lesson. On the plus side, I was about to receive my first lesson in annealing. 

Annealing is a process of slowly cooling glass to relieve internal stresses created as it was formed.  Glass which has not been annealed is apt to crack or shatter when subjected to small temperature changes or mechanical shock.  I learned about annealing charts and how to program the German-made annealer.  I point out the heritage of this machine because, although I consider Germans to be a highly intelligent group of people, their thought processes, and, hence, their products, are not always the most intuitive.  The annealer was no exception, and instincts, alone, would not have helped me succeed in this task. Annette decided on a course of re-heating and cooling that was going to take nearly 30 hours.  After double and triple checking our programming, the process was underway.  Since the pieces needed to be delivered in less than 48 hours, there was no room for error.  Working under duress is dead in the center of my comfort zone and I was happy to have the opportunity to help.  After about 2 hours of fretting, we were finally on to my lesson.

My first "set" of glasses

As you can see, I created a set of glasses today.  Yes, they ARE a set!  Not exactly alike, but, perhaps, more like brothers and sisters, each with their own unique and wonderful qualities, not exactly alike in any way, but created by the same two people and bonded together for life.  I love each and every one of my glasses and look forward to to opportunity to make more!

Lesson Zero

I call this lesson zero because it really wasn’t meant to be a lesson, but rather a visit to meet an artist who might consider taking me on as a student.  After researching glass studios in Michigan, I called those less than an hour from my home.  Most just referred me to their website for a list of classes.  Given my irregular work schedule, attending a class that met at the same time every week would be difficult.  I pondered my options, trying to re-arrange my schedule so I could sign up for a class, but it looked like it just wasn’t going to work out for me.  Then, I found Baron Glassworks. When I called studio, the owner answered.  Her name was Annette.  For those who know me, you know I am partial to that name.  It belonged to my mom, to whom I owe everything, and perhaps the only right-brained member of my family.  Naturally, I wanted her to be my teacher.  Annette told me to stop by her studio sometime so we could meet.  Not wanting to seem to anxious, I waited a full 15 minutes before calling her back and asking if now would be a good time.  "Sure!" she said.  I hopped in my car and headed her way!

I knew nothing about glass, and had no idea what to expect when I arrived.  After introducing myself to Annette, we talked for a while, she showed me around her studio and I watched her work with a few other students. Seeing my unbridled enthusiasm, she quickly realized she was stuck with me as a student and began capturing every teachable moment, directing her words of wisdom not only to her apprentices, but also to me, the apprentice-wannabe.  Like the newbie that I was, I held onto every word like it was gold.  I must’ve looked like a hungry and penniless child who just wandered into a candy shop, and, the goodhearted soul that she is, Annette couldn’t resist giving me a piece.  “Would you like to make a something?” she asked. She wasn’t going to have to ask me twice.  I have been waiting to hear those words since I was eight!

First, a quick safety lesson: safety glasses are a must, hair must be pulled back, never wear acrylic clothing, never walk backwards in the studio (this is harder than you would think!) and never pick anything up off the floor; it is likely to be sharp, hot or both! After a few dry runs with cold tools, we grabbed a pipe and headed for the furnace.  Given the inherent dangers of this process, she guided my every move, standing beside me, directing my grip on the blow pipe and, even more importantly, standing in front of me as I approached the furnace of molten glass.  Looking inside it for the first time, I could almost believe she had stolen for herself a piece of the sun. Now, just a few feet away from a blazing vessel of molten glass, I was going to steal a piece for myself.  She guided my pipe into the vat, dipping and twisting it into the viscous fluid, and, soon, I had a glowing orb at the end of my pipe.  It was beautiful! She walked me through the process of blowing my first bubble and dancing with gravity to shape my first piece.  In the end, we marvered and blew, jacked and paddled, and, in the end, she succeeded in taking me through the steps necessary to create a glass.  AMAZING!  

Armed with a healthy respect for the process and a basic understanding of what it would take to gain even a basic level of competence, I signed up for my first private lesson.

Why am I doing this?

The simplest answer is because it fascinates me.  I can remember my first exposure to it as a child.  Like most kids growing up in Ohio, my brothers and I were treated to an annual family trek to Cedar Point.  For most, Cedar Point stirs memories of racing on the Gemini, twisting upside-down through the Corkscrew, getting soaked on the log ride, and the endless displays of giant stuffed animals beckoning us to spend our dollars on a chance to win one.  I remember those things, too, but what I remember most is the glass blowers. Tucked way in the back of the park, past the rollercoasters and bumper cars, was a small building that housed a furnace, a glory hole, and the tools of the gaffer’s (glass blower’s) trade.  Beautiful pieces of glass with twists of colors and embellishments were always on display.  If I was lucky, someone was there working and I could actually watch the gaffers in action. I wanted a piece of glass even more than I wanted a giant stuffed panda (which, for the record, I never won!) but no level of water gun blasting or ring-tossing deftness could win me a piece.  To me, the blown glass objects were unobtainable treasures. 

Today, I am still fascinated both by the process of working with molten glass and the stunning items we can produce through this art form.  Thanks to a close and creative friend of mine who I have watched pursue and achieve excellence through her own artistic passion, I have come to realize this art form is not beyond my reach.  And so begins my journey . . .