99F-8 "'The Skysail' (waltz), Opus 164"

Ideas model themselves in my mind. What if I did this? Or this? In a radical move I start sketching some of the ideas. What's this? Elements of discipline in sand sculpture? The purpose is benign; I simply want build a better image of how the sculpture's parts will fit so there will be fewer default structures. In the old days I could visualize the whole sculpture, but these modern complex pieces are more than I can handle.

Build number:	99F-8 (lifetime start #164)
Title:	"'The Skysail' (waltz), Opus 164"
Date:	July 16
Location:	Venice Breakwater, south side
Start:	0645; building time 10 hours
Height:	4.4 feet
Base:	1.75 feet (cylindric)
Photography:	one roll TMX w/LX and 85mm

The day promises to be a classic California blazer, but vapor softens the low angle sunlight to a pearly wash that brings a glow to everything it touches. A few early sailboats, the breakwater rocks, breaking waves are all transformed into extraordinary images. Low tide has left water in sculpted pockets painted with delicate shades of blue-green over wave-shaped ripples. I have work on my mind, but this all brings me to a stop. Much of the storm drain is exposed, requiring a long carry if I want to build on the flat. I'd rather sculpt than carry, so this one goes where its predecessor was built. The sand is good, with few rocks and very little of the coarse sand that caused so much trouble two weeks ago. "Hi." "Hi..." "Did you do a sculpture here last week?" "Two weeks ago." "Yes. Man, you da bomb. You make those guys on the boardwalk look pretty bad." "Thank you." I guess... never can tell with slang. "I went up there and told the guy who makes the women, 'Come with me. I want to show you something.' I brought him down here to see your sculpture." "What did he say?" "He said 'I hope this guy never comes up to the boardwalk.'" "Well, he has little to fear. Besides big technical problems, I just don't like the place." "Keep up the good work. My name's Jeff. I'll come by later to take a look." "OK. Have fun!" With the pile finished I head for the restroom, returning by way of the swimming area north of the breakwater. The breakers are well beyond Larry-size so I wait for them to break and ride the foaming turbulent surge. I can only make one idea per day. I choose the sail-shapes I've been thinking about and start carving. This isn't what I sketched the other day; it just has more appeal at the moment. The idea is for three or four overlapping bulging sheets of sand attached to each other at the corners. Picture sailboats on a shining windy day. The soundtrack would be something fast, with a strong beat in time with the waves. In my mind the music is waltzes instead, perhaps brought on by the day's deliberate pace. There's no need for frantic carving. Picture a triangle on an egg-shaped surface. Now carve it, keeping in mind how you will keep it there, four feet above the ground. "You must have been a scientist at one time." "No. But perhaps I am a wannabe engineer." "Oh, yes." "I enjoy balancing aesthetic considerations with engineering. Sand requires honesty; you can't force anything." Beneath the spreading skysail I open up a big space bounded on one side by another sail curved against the skysail's top, on the other by an extension of the skysail that curves inside of the other sail's lower corner. "Hey, man, mind if I take a picture?" "Not at all. I'm not like the guys up on the boardwalk." "There's sand sculpture up there?" "Yes. Are you here on vacation?" "More or less. We're playing at a party." He hands me a CD: The Warren Hales Band. "Thank you." "What are you making?" "A fantasy. Anything you want." "Yes, but you must have some idea." "Well, yes. A combination of waltz music and sailboats." "I didn't know Walt had a music store." "Oh, be quiet, Rich." The skysail's western corner develops a knob that tucks around into the inner sail-shape's extension. It's a simple sculpture, you'd think it'd be easy to describe. "This one reminds me of sculptures from 1995, Rich." "Yes..." "But it's different. The '95 ones looked like things carved from solid blocks. This one looks more like several parts carved, then assembled." It sounds pretty silly as I say it. "At least that's the way it looks to me." I guess I'm trying to justify the simplicity. There are choices, and choices. Choose to make fewer elements and the sculpture will naturally resemble other simple pieces. It's hard to understand, but this sculpture's parts have more to them, are more dramatic. Call it a "Weightless" for the new millenium. Jim approaches in his new truck. I prepare to throw myself in front of the sculpture, but he swerves at the last moment. "I have a new station. I'll be moving to headquarters in Santa Monica." "Oh, my. Does this mean you've been kicked upstairs?" He's avoided promotion for the same reason I have: too much hassle, too little real work. "Yep. They made me an offer... I couldn't... refuse." It's busy for a Friday. Jim rolls off to lecture some swimmers in the surfing area. Even here, with a sea wind running, I feel like a chicken on the rotisserie. The sail motif starts to come apart about halfway down. In order to get the bulging, full of wind look, the skysail has to span most of the sculpture. That makes the top wide and that has engineering ramifications all the way to the ground. The spreading forces on the sail's ends have to be contained, but the central seconary sail helps by taking some of the top's weight. "I could think of a couple of good places to put holes." I'm munching another Force Primeval Bar. This has been an intense day. "Yah, I know where you want them, Rich, but you won't get 'em. I like this sculpture and am not ready to risk it to increase the Johnson Number." The holes are fakes, cut back just enough to shape their surroundings and inside enough to cast a shadow. I don't like doing this but I've carved myself into a corner; too much sand up top depends on sand down here. During the clean-up I realize I've forgotten to carve a space. It should be possible, but the time's closing in on ten hours and I've had it. Besides, the sculpture doesn't really need it. The day is cooling. Many of the people have left and Rich follows suit, needing to get to a meeting. I feel no great need to go anywhere, so just plop down on the sand and look at the sculpture. "It looks African." "Yes. Shona." They're a mix of people. "I'm from Zimbabwe, and this definitely looks African. We're here for the gift show and we could put this in our booth." "Maybe it is African; who knows what's in my ancestry." "Maybe in a prior life." It still feels like a miracle. I've been here the whole day, planning and carving, holding the tools and moving them, but still don't know where they come from. Jim drives up and stops. I work my way upright and lean against his truck. A couple of passersby stop to look. "We don't know where these things come from." Jim points and goes on. "The tide comes in and leaves these weird shapes." "Yes. I can see the layers formed by each tide, like tree rings." That's as good an explanation as any. The passersby wander on. "So, this is your last day here?" "No, tomorrow. After that I'll be at headquarters." "Five days off. That'll be great." "Yes. I can feel my liver already cringing." "Well, just remind yourself of how bad you feel the next day." "Ah, it doesn't work that way. The moment is what matters." "That must have been what my brother thought until it killed him." "As an EMT I've seen a lot of suicides. What surprises me is how hard they work at it; these people really want to die. I wonder what brings them to that point. And I wonder how close the rest of us are to it." "The only thing I can think of is that they think they're out of options." Memories come back, reinforcing... "They refuse to see other alternatives. My brother was intelligent and well educated; I don't know what happened." "Those are the ones who have trouble. Intelligent people know what's wrong." "Yes, but why can't they use their intelligence to find other ways when things quit working? Some people..." I think of Kasey. "...you knock them around like Bozo dolls and they just come back up." "I don't know. I can always count on you, Larry, to come up with good questions." And I can always count on you, Jim, to stimulate them. He drives away to corral a couple of boogie-boarders. I think of my sister, undergoing radiation therapy, working to regain her bagpipe skills. She said "The psychologic effects are harder to deal with, but with the alternative being sulking in a corner I'll deal with them." Some people quit. Some don't. Like the lifeguard I wonder what thin line separates the two. It's a beautiful piece. I sit on the sand and watch the shadows change. This particular set of compromises worked out pretty well. I miss the interesting spaces that more complex sculptures have; the cavernous openings in this one serve mainly to separate the hard parts, but the surrounding sand looks good. From some angles it looks impossible. "This is beautiful. Did you make it?" He's beautiful too, enough to overcome my usual indifference. "Yes." "I came down to check the surf and this is a nice surprise." "Where are you from?" "Quebec." "How did you become interested in surfing?" This is like learning to surf in Kansas. "I saw a movie and said I have to try this. I read books about surfing and watched every other movie I could find. Now that I'm 18 I can go where I want, so I'm here for a month." He looks confident enough to do it. "I'm going back to get my camera." "As I drove up I could see your sail shapes." "Really, Jim? That's amazing. Most of the time your impressions are more, um, anatomic." "I am an EMT, you know." The sun approaches the mountains and the day cools. I'm so tired that I start to shiver, but I don't want to leave. The sculpture sings softly, glowing golden.

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