98H-2 "Another Touch" (for Pieter Wiersma)
Shut it down and call this road a day |
98H-2 "Another Touch" (for Pieter Wiersma) | |
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| With dawn comes the soft pitter-pat of rain in the tree outside my bedroom. Rain? I knew it was cloudy yesterday, but didn't expect this. Dawn also brings a throat that feels as if someone has been using sandpaper on it. The day's activities are indeterminate until sunlight breaks through the fast-moving clouds. At least it looks warmer. |
| Build number: | 98H-2 (lifetime start #149) |
| Date: | November 28 |
| Title: | "Another Touch" (for Pieter Wiersma) |
| Location: | Venice Breakwater, on the flat |
| Start: | 0915; building time: approx 4.5 hours |
| Height: | 4.5 feet (short form with free-pile extension) |
| Base: | 1.6 feet (cylindric lower course) |
| Photography: | last half E100S-135, with WR in rain |
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Antoine, my next-door neighbor, is also brave today. He's setting out against the boisterous wind on roller skates as I get my sculpture kit out of the garage. Rain comes and goes in light quick touches as I ride west.
Pieter Wiersma died of AIDS in 1984, one of the early cases in Holland. Before he died he made 148 astounding sand sculptures, fantastically detailed buildings beautifully done. His work has an elegance to it that I admire greatly. So does Lars van Nigtevegt, who introduced me to Pieter's sculptures. I'm fortunate enough to be able to keep working beyond 148 zandkastelen. At the end of Rose Avenue I get my first clear glimpse of the ocean. Brown, as usual after a storm, turbulent surf, few people, and no western horizon. Rain draws a curtain across mountains and water, giving me just enough time to get into the lee of the lifeguard tower before it makes landfall. Simon is on duty. He drives up to the tower and invites me inside after telling me of his brewing and drawing experiments. We watch the storm roll through. Rain pelts the windows, driven by a steady, strong southwest wind. It'll be a boring day for him. Suddenly white clouds show through the veil of falling water. The wind backs off a bit and less water is running from the windows. Well, if there's going to be a chance, now is it. I thank Simon for his hospitality and hit the sand. The flat behind the breakwater is clean and smooth. Decent sand is available a hundred feet or so away, revealed by the falling tide. Building the pile keeps me warm as brown surf bashes against the rocks and flashes skyward. No surfers are essaying the rough conditions; what a contrast to Thursday when it was standing room only out there, on a regular succession of well-formed breakers. The sun was shining then too, and I was warm. That's only a memory. This is definitely Michael's kind of day: dramatic clouds, and just in front of the mountains, a brief rainbow. Filling the short form goes steadily. The free-pile extension is more difficult because I don't have room in the tub to de-aerate the sand before I pile it. Too much sand. Next time, don't fill it before adding water. The extension winds up being a little soft, but it'll work. There's no time for precision today; I'll be lucky to get this one off at all. Squalls hide Palos Verdes and then pass on. More cover the Santa Monica Mountains. Still, the yacht racers are out there, announced by the cannon. Their sails are dimly visible against falls of rain. I spray the extension heavily in an attempt to get better consolidation in the periphery. It works, a little, but the sand still flakes away unless carved very carefully. I explore the pile, finding its limits and working out a design. How often is it given to one of us to touch magic? Maybe it's the extension's softer sand, a particular conformation of hidden texture. Under my rain-chilled fingers the winter sand warms and Roman is there, the transubstantiation reinforcing memories of wonder. The memories are partly painful in their reminder of what I've lost and will probably never have again, and partly ecstatic in reminding me of what we made. The feeling is chastely voluptuous, an honest enjoyment of human touch. Dislodged sand gently falls away to catch on a lower curve. The first element to show up is a ball at the top. From that descend shapes that feel anthropomorphic; I rub them gently, my fingers following the curves, finding the weak spots. This looks and feels good, but leaves little space for access to the center for lightening. Right now it's not a problem. Shivering doesn't help delicate carving. I should have brought long pants, at least for a windbreak. Still, I work at defining some of the small elements around the top, clarifying the various twisting panels. If I'm going to do anything inside here I need access. The scattered storms apply pressure to get things done, and I take great swings between two panels, digging heartily until I meet the slot carved from the other side. This big space's lower edge is provided by a swaybacked element crossing from the wing on the right to the panel on the left. I curve it gently, blurring the separation of inside and outside. Below that I carve another opening. All this physical work at least keeps me a little warmer, or less cold. Looking at the sculpture from some distance suggests a need for more definition in the top, so just below the ball tip I carve a tiny opening across and bend the panel below into the space. There are still some passersby, even in the light rain that comes and goes. They wander past, take photos of the pounding surf flying over the rocks, and keep walking. A few joggers stop, but not for long. They have the same problem I do: staying warm. This makes me wonder how the sailors racing out there manage. Right now I can't even see the boats. The big wing on the west side gains definition, and gets tucked in a bit and supported by a curving leg up from the base. It's a default move, but there's not time to be fancy today. It's strong and reasonably attractive, which is the main point. I dig behind it, connecting with the lowest space on the north side. The interior is left rough. Another space connects up and to the right, coming out below the pendant panel from the tower, helping define its end. There's only one part left to carve, a cylindric panel that pretty much has to stay because it holds the top up. In its upper part I just dish out a concave. It looks good. Below that I edge the various bounding panels, continuing the carved surfaces inward until they meet. It's mass hiding, the last resort of the structurally deficient, but it looks good. Rain closes in from the west, hiding the horizon, boats and all. That's it; there's no sense pushing this any farther. It has been fun. I clean up, brushing the sculpture and smoothing the surroundings. The storm light is just right for photography. The weather-resistant camera is in its metier; light rain spatters the lens and my glasses. Every detail of the sculpture is clear in the damp air. It's a nice sculpture. None of its elements is new, but the way they're put together is. This one has nice harmony and a hard-to-define suggestion of humanness. If I look at it out of the corner of my eye, it looks as if it could walk away, or is waiting to strike up a conversation. The upper half is one of the most sensuous sculptures I've ever made. Below that is strong support with a few hints of softness. It's a piece more for touch than appearance. Subtle contours remind of a body's hollows and transitions. Close your eyes, caress the sand and let your mind build the sculpture, transubstantiation from evanescent touch and memory. I load the bike and walk away. Simon waves as I pass the station, hair dripping, hat soaked, sand all over everything. Hot food is the main thing on my mind, but I think of Pieter, and Roman. The world is poorer for their absence. I splash home under flying clouds. | ||
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Original: 98 November 28
All contents* copyright 1998 and 1999 by
Larry Nelson *The song from her record "Flyer" was written by Nanci Griffith. Used here without permission because Nanci put into words what I couldn't. |
98h02rpt.htm 99-January-12