99F-11 "Natural Language: Transpacific Echo"

All I know is that I want to do a sculpture. "Hi, Rich. I don't know what kind of day this will be, but I'm heading for the beach." Free-pile? Form? Who knows. Load the trailer and get out of here!

Build number:	99F-11 (lifetime start #167)
Title:	"Natural Language: Transpacific Echo"
Date:	August 27
Location:	Venice Breakwater, on the flat
Start:	1200; building time: 6 hours
Height:	4 feet (native sand, unfiltered)
Base:	1.75 feet (cylindric)
Photography:	one roll TMX w/LX and 85mm

At first I used borrowed cars. A few trips went by bus or motorcycle. That latter was a sight. A clapped-out bike with sand sculpture equipment bungeed in place flying down the freeway. Then I bought Wolfee, a 1962 Buick station wagon, and drove that to the parking lot beside the Sea Castle whence I carried the equipment to the tide line. Bicycles are elegant, but lack carrying capacity. Bob Blackmer and I solved that with some sheet aluminum and this became the standard. A wobbly stochastic progress got my equipment and me to the beach until the rear wheel fell apart. This was after the derailleur cable broke, the chain kinked and the front der quit shifting. Sand and salt are bad for machinery. I could see the end coming. How am I going to get this stuff to the beach? A trailer would do the job, but all of the ones in bike shops are tiny or made for kids. I need a long one. Well, they say you can find anything on the Internet. Their name says everything you need to know. "Bikes at Work." The trailer is built of sturdy aluminum tubing, steel and carriage bolts. It's classic Iowa farm engineering and it arrived Wednesday in two boxes. Much assembly is required, but goes easily. A quick test trip keeps me looking back to see if it's still there. So, no matter what kind of sculpture I make, the trailer's going with me. Call it an all-up operational test. I roll smoothly and rapidly to the beach and the trailer tags along, extra weight's resistance to acceleration being the only sign that it's there. Dragging it across the beach, using a strap to the towbar, is a pain but no worse than pushing that unwieldy bike with its carrier. It has one big advantage in that it can be parked without falling over as I scout for sand.

The news is bad. I guess I'd been hoping the tide book was lying. It's already noon and we're at least an hour from good sand, just as the book illustrated. I scout on over to the flat and find workable sand, then fetch the trailer. Maybe we'll get some water over the flat before the sun sets; that makes for nice photographs. Larry would like those. I pick a spot between heaps of fly-covered seaweed and set up. There's not enough wind for the box kite, but the parafoil goes up easily without its tails, and the delta leaps upward as if called. Examining the sand finds it clean, so I just fling it into the form and start packing. Within an hour there's a pile ready to carve and I don't feel run over by a truck. Coarse sand presents problems. It dries out rapidly, won't hold a fine edge and has a tendency to collapse when provoked. The trick to provoke it enough to get an interesting sculpture within the limit that advertises itself only in fallen sand. With interest in a sculpture coming from detail and undercut I have a challenge. I also have a new tool: a long cake decorator's spatula whose handle is offset to keep my knuckles out of the work. Its thin blade has an amazing combination of sensitivity and strength and I find it in my hand more and more often as the day progresses. It's good for poking in and lifting sand out. It's also good for the long sideways cuts for which I made the Sand Knife. What I don't have is a plan. Whatever I make will have to stay within the strict limit of the sand's water-mediated cohesion. Trimming the top back seems like a good start, but within a few strokes I'm distracted by the direction of the new shape and we're headed for another vertical piece. Even worse, the piece I'm carving is looking very familiar. I know there are problems with this sand, but can't I do better than another concave flame shape? Again, don't give up. Take the tool in hand and show the shape who's doing the carving. I cut away the west side of the problem area, curve its northern side down and back toward me. This is better, but still too familiar. What would happen if I outlined the top surface's edge and added some concave subtle shapes to the north? Don't quit. But also don't go too far; there can be excess elaboration that only adds noise. "Eric never made the connection between going to college and getting a good job, even when he was going to college." "That's something my parents said all the time, but for some reason I gave up on it. I was a lousy student. Makes me wonder why some people take to school and others don't. I never managed to stay with it long enough to get a degree." "I thought you had one." "Nope. I just read a lot. Asking questions wasn't a good idea." "I had some good teachers." Even now, well into retirement, Rich remembers them. "I guess I was lucky, but almost all of my teachers were good. And one of them lived with us when I was in grade school, so I learned she was approachable. Questions weren't a problem." "To me they were always up there, not to be bothered. If I couldn't figure something out on my own, I just left it alone. Like calculus. Failed that class in college." "Did the teacher know calculus?" "I suppose so. But he never put it in terms I could grasp. I don't do well with isolated pieces of knowledge; I need to know how the numbers fit reality. Now I know what proceses calculus describes, but back then I was lost." Where do designs come from? How much is enough? All I can say is that some combinations of shapes tickle some sense inside. I'm not in control of producing these shapes, but I do power the process and my design sense informs it. Hold the tiller, but don't choke it. Wind, wave and feeling all have a say in guidance. "What do you mean, you don't know love?" Mercy denigrates her ability with English, but she pays attention and thinks. I get used to people who don't listen, and become careless. She understands and my hand pauses on its way to the sculpture. "Well, I know all the standard stories and have read many things about love, but I wouldn't recognize it if I saw it. Many people say they love others, but their actions don't look like anything I'd want to experience." She's going back to Taiwan tomorrow. The beach will be colder without her smile. She sits on the sand, intent, moving around the sculpture as I move to work on different areas. Rich finally persuades the box kite to join its friends in the sky. They make a good show, the delta kite with its spinning tails, the parafoil wandering gracefully and the box just hanging there. "Where'd you get the kites?" She hasn't even noticed the sculpture. The advertising has taken over. "I can't remember the name of the place, a little shop on the north side of Culver in Playa del Rey." "They look nice." Get three kites together in one place and it's a festival. Decorate the sky while I decorate the beach. The problem with a plethora of tools is that I forget what I have. Wanting to reach inside a small space, I try turning the tool in my hand this way and that, but it just won't fit. How am I going to get in there? Suddenly I remember. Mercy watches as I pick up the tool I want and waggle my little finger. "This is the Steel Pinky." She smiles, and I pick up the Pinky's predecessor. "And this one is the Steel Finger, the oringinal of the breed." Wiggling her thumb at me, she asks "How about this one?" "It's on the way. I'm working on the design." Turning back to the sculpture, I dig out the little hollow with my specialized Pinky. Once a failure, always a failure. It's not until the sculpture is nearly finished that I begin to see that I've wrought something special. Even when I've struggled to get its elements to express what I feel I still remember how badly they started. "When I return to Taiwan maybe I can try this." "All you need is decent sand. Do you live near a beach?" "In Taipei the water is very dirty." "Maybe you can find a beach outside the city. All you need is fine sand and your hands." About 100 feet away is enough fine sand for a city of sand sculpture but this doesn't enter my awareness for a time. "Wait a minute. I can show you." Thinking that Rich is minding the store, I lead the way over the pipe to the wonderful warm creamy sand. There's even a borrow pit already dug. On my knees I show her. "You can always dig a hole to get wet sand like this as the tide falls. Take double handfuls, plop the sand onto the beach and pat it." She picks some up, puts it on the pile and spreads it out, patting. I wonder what she's thinking about making. "Yes, it's very messy." Rich walks around us, photographing. Rich? I thought he was. . . "DON'T TOUCH!" The woman's hand comes back as if stung. "That's what I get for turning my back." She left only fingerprints. I continue the clean-up, brushing very carefully and trimming here and there. I have to turn down the finish quality control; try to get the last gnat's eyelash of precision and the whole coarse sand edge will fall off. Some subtle internal shaping, reshaping here and there, and it's finished. I clean up the base and sign it. "This is one of the first pieces you've done that doesn't need to be made of sand. Wood, stone, no matter what, this would look good." "Thank you, Rich." "Maybe it's the way the base tucks in. It's narrower this way than that way." It's bold. Within that boldness are details, some subtle, others strongly written. Within the details the sculpture is at once solid and aetherial. I walk around it, marvelling. Who'd have thought that this sand would sing so well, that solidity could look so delicate. "Maybe you're right about love. I think it's all that's holding this together." She smiles. The sculpture stands. "What will you do in Taiwan?" "I . . . I'm studying English." "I think you'll do well with that." She speaks slowly, but by reading between the lines I can tell she understands everthing. "I'm not so sure." Why is it no-one ever sees their own skills accurately? "You have big hands." How do you think I learned to move sand? She places her hands over my signature. The wind is relaxing, sun burying itself in vapor. I take a last look at the sculpture, and then we walk to the bike path. She holds my bike while I hitch the trailer. We part, improbably connected time-borne chips separating, spinning off on separate journeys.

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