It started with the hammer

Originally Published 9-7-2011

Those protruding nails on the front porch started it. I was tired of catching the sole of my shoe on the same nails over and over again. So I grabbed my trusty carpenter's hammer and whacked the crap out of the entire line of them. That run of nails along the one floor joist had worked their way up and out of the deck over the years -- like a line of shark's teeth lying in wait for an unsuspecting foot or shoe to attack -- with rusty vengeance.

So, I went down the line, boom, boom, boom, nail after terrible nail. And somehow, the act of hammering down those evil nail demons pulled me up and out of the well of introspection that I have been inside of for a few weeks. The simple joy of the strike and the boom made me wake up and look out instead of in. My arm and my body remembered the feeling of the hammering and the comfort of that effort. I saw the hammer head drive the nails down into the wood one by one in incredible super slow-mo. And it made me want to go back to my empty studio again. And it made me really want to work instead of just going through the motion of work.

I hammered metal all day yesterday and today I am back.  I am home again after the long journey in. Change does that. My mind was doing battle with a terrible thing, and the war has finally ended. I have emerged. I am OK. And now I know what I am going to do. I know how I am going to be. I know I can't make everybody happy no matter how hard I try. So, I am going to start with me, and I have given myself permission -- really, really -- to disappoint people who have unrealistic expectations of me that I do not wish to fulfill. I will no longer give away energy and time to people who have none of their own and only take mine. Sorry.

So now, back to the hammer. The project on my bench and the anvil are waiting. you do your work and make your own way in the world, just like I am. You work, and I'll work. I'll share with you when I can spare the extra energy. If you play nice and share too.

Today's tip: I have custom ground several Delrin forming hanmmers to match the profile of my steel forming hammers, so I have the option to either gently move or aggressively move sheet in the same bay of my raising stake. Sweet!

The demand to “GO!”

Originally Published 8-31-2011

I have never understood where or how the driving need to "GO!" rises up and makes itself known to me.

When I say "GO!", I mean go away at the same time that I am here. My mind and feelings are far, but I am right here next to everything, doing the same crap I do all the time. Going is a feeling or a thought or some other thing of the human condition -- but the urgency to GO! sometimes consumes me with the same intensity as hunger or thirst. It is instinctual and rises out of the middle of my body and I can't think of anything else. I can't do anything else. I am powerless in the face of it and I know I will be damaged somehow deep in my soul if I do not GO!. It is like nothing else. And it will not be denied. I am a shell of this person you thought you knew and standing right here next to you, but I am not here, really. It just looks that way.

This is a source of tension and conflict for me. Because of the obligations. Accomplished people like me have many obligations, and people relying on them. Some obligations bring me comfort and joy -- for the most part. Except when the need to GO! comes to consume me. Then, those obligations cause me to become angry and resentful. I push them away, sometimes with violent force. I get crabby. I ignore the phone. I blow off my friends. I don't rehearse the choreography. I become terse and sarcastic when interrupted. I eat crap and I don't go to the gym -- because I will die inside if I am not left alone to deal with the elusive thing that is calling me like a siren. I isolate myself from everyone and even become self destructive in an effort to escape the demands of obligation, routine, boredom and predictable mediocrity -- and I GO! to examine the thing that dances there on the periphery. I have no choice.

I can be difficult, arrogant and aloof. I know I disappoint people and I know I make them angry, too -- that is a price I pay, and I pay it often. But I cannot lay down and die inside just to meet the needs of somebody else when it is time to GO!. 

I've learned not to make an effort to keep casual friends because I know it takes an unusually strong person to stick with me and I can't bear dealing with disappointed people when they discover that I am there and then not there with equal intensity. Sometimes they stay, sometimes not.

The up side is that the few who hang with me through the tempest will be rewarded when I come back from following the siren song. I will be there for them stronger and better than ever,  because I had to Go to keep my soul alive. In the meantime, I am sorry for the lack of emails and phone calls, dirty laundry, blown deadlines, cat hair on the stairs, weeds in the garden, forgotten appointments, unpaid bills, empty pantry, lack of kibble and crappy dinner. I don't really care about those things right now, but I promise I will be back again soon.

Please wait for me, because I had to GO! . . .

Sometimes, life gets in the way of Art

Originally Published 6-11-2011

Where the heck have you been? I've heard that about 90 times in the past 10 days.

OK, I admit it -- I haven't been here in a while, either. I had good intentions, really. But you've heard that old saying about the road to the devil and good intentions.

It's life. My life. Something I haven't really paid too much attention to in a decade really, unlike my work, which I was consumed by 24/7. But my life -- the real one -- finally jumped up and tapped me on the back and said, "Hey You! Pay attention. You only get one of me, and you've been working too hard for too long. You've been focused away for a long time and you need to stop. Please, rest now. It's time to live."

So, I listened. I went to an enchanted tropical island. I rested. I ate low on the food chain. My only worry was what to make for the next meal. I was unplugged and disconnected. Sounds of nature. Naps in the hammock. Snorkeling in the sea. Stars in the night sky. Love and laughter. No buzz. No news. No internet, no nothing but the pulse of  life -- the real one. And, it took a week or so, but I remembered who I am. I remembered what I love, what I want, and what really matters to me.

When I got back, everything here was the same, only more so. I am not.

I am finally fixing a bunch of annoying things that I let go for almost ever because I was working so hard elsewhere. Things of my life that matter but I didn't make time for. Doors that needed hinges. Paint in the hallway. The attic steps. The porch. The ugly pink living room. Too-large clothes I don't wear. The thistle eradication project.  The basement crap. The throwing out, purging and pushing away what and who was there in my life once and isn't any more. And, the gathering in, embracing and welcoming what and who is there now.

Including me.

Sorry I haven't written in a while. But I am back again.
And, the latch on the second floor bathroom door works!

Todays Tip: Has nothing to do with metalwork.
First, wait for a still, rain free day. Then, to win the invasive weed war against Canada Thistle, cut the stem to about 3 inches tall and use an eyedropper to drip Roundup inside the hollow center of the stem. Watch those evil plants that you have been battling for 6 growing seasons die a tortured death over the course of 2 or 3 days and finally have your revenge. Then, celebrate victory and go to the garden center for some new plants to fill the real estate you suddenly have after so many years...

The real price of a high metals market

Originally Published 5-1-2011

Yesterday, I decided to scrap some metal. Spot prices have been rising every day and the timing was good for my personal economics. My sister and I traveled in to Jewelers Row and I decided my instincts would guide me on where to go. Once I had chosen, I looked around the dusty, small shop. It had been a busy day and there were piles of old silver holloware and gold everywhere. A bench jeweler was retipping some prongs, and the owner of the shop -- Joseph -- greeted me and my sister as we came in. I could see by his clear blue eyes and open face that he was an honest man. This was the place.

We went about the business of weighing and calculating, and my sister and I had already done the hard work of sorting clean scrap from sweeps, we had graded all of the gold parts and unwanted pieces in advance, and pre-weighed everything to get a rough idea of our total. Joseph noted and calculated, and told us how unusual it was to have knowledgeable customers in the shop and that he appreciated what we had done for him after such a busy day. My sister told him I was a jeweler, and then we began to talk shop. I admired some of the older pieces in the case, including a set of beautiful chased and repoussed holloware and old hand hammered silver serve ware. I said a high metals market was a good-bad thing, because all of this beautiful work would be lost. How sad it was to see the work of my metalsmith brothers destined for the crucible. How horrible it was to know that the history and hard work of my craft would be melted down and converted to a number on some investors spreadsheet somewhere, and that unknown goldsmith's training, vision and labor meant nothing more than a pile of money in this greedy world.

Joseph stopped his calculations. He asked me if I wanted to see something spectacular and told the bench jeweler to lock the door. He went into the back, and brought out a huge, solid fine silver vessel. The surface was intricately chased and completely covered with intertwined floral decoration, borders and figures. I believe it was southeast asian, probably Thai, judging by the clothing on the figures. The entire vessel had been raised and chased by hand. It was very heavy and old, and there were still remnants of black pitch on the inside. I turned it over and over in my hands and felt the connection with its maker. Joseph told me he had a buyer for it -- from a museum. I thanked him and told him how happy I was for that as we smiled at each other.

We finished our transaction and totaled out, chatting again about tools and we joked a little about the nice dinner my sister and I would have that night. I shook Joseph's hand and thanked him for sharing that work with me, and for saving it from an undeserved fate in the flame. As our eyes met, I knew I had found a kindred soul, and that I would be in Joseph's shop again.

As I type this, there is a transferred, black floral impression from pitch and polish on the heel of my right hand. It is a reminder of the work I touched yesterday and the connection I made with the history of my craft. No matter how high the price of our raw materials go, investment greed and the frenzy of hoarding metal can never take that from us. We make for the joy of making, not for the lust of taking.

Today's tip: I keep several labeled covered plastic containers in my bench pan. As I generate scrap, I drop it in the proper container so I can take advantage of a good spot price and be ready to take my scrap in quickly.

Conferences, connections and a different world

Originally Published 4-2-2011

A gentle nudge is usually all it takes to get me rolling. Other times it takes a concerted kick in my posterior to force me to figure out where to go next. Especially when I feel lost.=

I just got back from the 2011 Colorado Metalsmithing Association Conference in Salida, Co. It was totally incredible, and the lineup was just fantastic. I saw and held gorgeous works by Michael Zobel, Michael Good, and many other amazing metals artists. I am inspired to work -- if I can ever get back to my bench. But, this year was different for me. Not only because I am different. Everything else is different too, and I am lost in a land of confusion. I went to the conference with a different set of objectives. Many of the same personalities and characters were there, and I caught up with them and made my usual contacts and connections, but because the world of print publishing is changing dramatically, this year I was there for a different reason. My assignment was to capture footage for a new digital product, so I interviewed 6 metals masters, tool designers and lapidary artists in typical "man on the street" TV journalist style. It was surreal to say the least.

I am new to this world of the digital video camera. At this moment, I have appeared in three 2-hour technique DVDs, but I still feel uneasy about talking on camera, because unlike teaching a class, there is no connection to anything real. There is no interaction or exchange.

It is disconcerting. I love print. I love books. I love learning the old way -- from information passed with hands -- you know, master to apprentice and demonstration and practice. I am uneasy about having the knowledge and tradition of my craft held in an elusive and mysterious format like a digital file that lives in cyberspace. It feels nebulous and unreal, not solid -- like the tools, metal and stone I can hold in my hands as I work, or observe my mentor using as I am shown something.

Lately, I am reminded of my art history class, where the Italian Renaissance clicked away, slide after slide after slide, in a scattershot of images with no sense of scale, form or context.  I try to imagine what the world will be like when all information is digital. Will life be reduced to an endless vicarious peep show as we watch other people "do" things in cyberspace without ever touching a tool or piece of metal ourselves? Will we consume information as a substitute for doing? How can we analyze the information of a visual art form, when we cannot observe it in 3D reality? And, what will we really experience if everything is a nugget of information to be observed on a computer monitor or slid sideways on a touch screen?

I often wonder about these things. Is digital information real? Is digital documentation, record keeping and history real -- if it can be constantly edited, accessed, tweaked and altered? Or are we really all just bits of matter floating through time and space where the only real is at this very moment and no more?