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Winter Tide, Winter Sand, Buried TreasureOn December 31, 2001, the high tide hits 6.7 feet at 0900. I skateboard to the Breakwater to find out how this will play out, so as to get some idea of where to cache the sand I will dig this afternoon. The outlook isn't good. Vigorous surf is driving waves farther inland than usual, up, over the cusp of the beach and halfway to the lifeguard tower. I stand, feet in the rushing water, watching surfers on this rare big-wave bounty and the wave patterns. Most of the big ones end their run a little way north of the storm drain, leaving a portion of the high beach relatively less eroded. If I were prudent I'd place my sculpture back 100 feet or so, but that isn't attractive. Aesthetics rule the decision to place the sculpture on this nearly drowned headland: if it survives, it will be an excellent stage. Larry says I like to live dangerously. The lifeguards shake their heads when I build a sculpture a few inches away from the coming high tide, and it proves to work. It pays to have experience with a particular beach. I still have a bad feeling about this one; tomorrow's tide is supposed to be a tad lower but many things can go wrong. For example, the surf that is hammering the breakwater. The storm is past, the surf should be going down. It has 24 hours, right? The other problem is sand. In the peaceful days of summer and fall good sand builds up in a thick layer, there for the easy digging. Winter storms and high tides change the situation, taking away or hiding the shy good sand, leaving only the heavy coarse stuff. When I return in the afternoon with my sand cart and a bunch of buckets that is indeed the case. There's coarse sand all the way down to the negative 1.5 foot level. Again, experience helps. The beach's shape is quite similar to what it has been, without the heavy erosion that happens later in the winter. I pick a spot, start digging, and there it is. Under about seven inches of coarse sand is the good stuff. All I have to do is work. It's like any other strip mine. Remove the useless overburden and throw it in an ugly heap and then dig out and carry away the good stuff. Four buckets of wet fine sand go up the beach to be dumped on the green tarp and then I return. By then the borrow pit is full of water so I have to repeat the whole process. By the time I've acquired the necessary 18 buckets the area looks bad, but I'll reclaim it with a free-pile sculpture. Six full buckets surround the tarp, which has another 12 bucketfuls piled on it. I tie the whole thing up in yellow tape and call it good, with my fingers crossed. Tomorrow's tide is an important one and it could go either way. Now it's time to have some fun. I gather my jacket, shoes and tools. Wait a minute. I know they were in the bike's rack trunk. Where are they? I brought the essentials: #1 Loop, Steel Pinky and the small offset spatula. All three are nowhere to be found, and I search long and hard. It's as if they evaporated. How can this be? Without my #1 Loop I'm lost; it was the first instance of the Tool Revolution in 1995. Discouraged, I bag the the free-pile plan and drag my tail home. I've lost some good friends. My only hope is that somehow they got underneath the tarp before I put the sand on top. The trailer waits in the garage, loaded with what I'll need. Tomorrow the new year begins at 0800. |
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| 00F-1 Report |
| Build number: | 02F-1 (lifetime start #229) |
| Title: | "For John Coffey" |
| Date: | January 1 |
| Location: | Venice Breakwater, on the flat |
| Start: | 0800; duration 8 hours (incl seawall engineering and construction) |
| Height: | 3.4 feet (Latchform) |
| Base: | 1.75 feet, ellipsoid prism due to form's shape |
| Photo 35mm: | approx 8 exp Provia w/WR |
| Photo 6X7: | 1 roll Ilford 3200 w/6X7 and 100 macro |
| Photo volunteer: | Rich, w/Canon Z115 |
| Video motion: | walkaround, detail tracking, atmosphere w/XL1 (20 min) |
| Video still: | vertical, whole sculpture |
| Video volunteer: | none |
| New Equipment: | none |
1. A Large Man, A Mouse, A Miracle"Cool Hand Luke" "Shawshank Redemption" Cruel guards, mean-spirited inmates, corrupt management and no one cares. I drove to Lancaster for a mountain bike ride with Mauricio. Even I had to admit it was too cold and wet to try that, so we did other things. Before I went home, in the last of the light, he loaned me some DVDs. We've talked enough about movies that he has an idea of what I like, and most of the time it's a good idea. "The Green Mile" has guards that haven't forgotten their humanity, and the inmates aren't uniformly psychopathic. There is still room for good in the prison. When John Coffey, an inmate, compares his life in the outside world to having shards of glass forced into his face I know exactly what he's talking about. Remaining sensitive while also intact is a difficult balance. The story pulls me in and holds me for the movie's entire three hours. 2. Time for StrengthMy first hint that, insofar as the tide's concerned, my luck has run out comes about halfway to the breakwater. I look out across the beach and see a towering breaker. Such is the life of the littoral sand sculptor. It's a little before 0800. The tide is supposed to peak at 0947 but that temporal peak is broad and I can expect wave action high on the beach for at least an hour either side of the peak. As I drag my trailer to the work site a wave pushes a little over the cusp. Yes, I'm in trouble. Mirjam, here I go, a Dutchman in spirit. The Dutch have learned a lot about handling boisterous water with big machines. I have myself, a shovel, and, most fortuitously, seaweed. A seawall made only of sand fits perfectly the legend of houses built on sand. One wave in five seconds washes away 15 minutes of work, and the next wave is soon to arrive. Riprap is the key, and seaweed is the only material present in enough quantity to save me. I gather some--old, slippery, rotten slimy stuff it is--and lay the foundation. If I do it now I can get the defenses built before the tide is serious about reclaiming this spot of sand. With the basic wall built I gather the all the rest of the seaweed I can find I lay it as riprap on the seaward face of my breastwork. Then I dig a trench on the seaward side, a few feet away so as not to undermine the wall, and throw the sand onto the wall. Most waves are breaking so as to produce a southerly current along the beach, so I dig the trench to help guide this water past my wall. I dig another trench inside the wall so that overflow water--I know there will be some--will run past the sculpture's base. Every few minutes a set of big waves smacks the breakwater. These are trouble. You can hear it coming: a boom, much tumult, hissing of waves receding, and then quiet. Quiet is the harbinger of trouble because it means there is no backwash from a previous wave to interfere with the next incoming. Here it comes, and it's no love tap. A strong front with plenty of steam behind it, sliding up the beach. It runs into the outer ditch and keeps on coming, against the wall, rebounding, running into itself and then being pushed over the top, into the inner ditch. On each side of my fortification water foams past, down the back of the beach, leaving a dry strip. Everything worked as it should. The time is about 0915. I pack some sand into the form. Waves come and go, some more bent on vengeance than others. It's 0950. I'm beginning to think I'll get away with this. The outer ditch has filled in, so I dig it out and use the spoil to reinforce the wall's seaward slope. After that I have time to add a few more layers to the pile inside the form. A wave comes over the top, and it leaves a small gift: a child's yellow sand shovel. The time is 1030, and no waves have hit this high for several minutes. Confidence grows in me. Maybe the little shovel is a gift: Neptune declaring a truce. I stick it into the top of the seawall and go back to packing. It's awfully quiet. And then I'm suddenly surrounded by heaving water. It's over the wall as if it weren't there and into everything. Buckets float away and the sand-covered tarp tries to take off. More waves come in. Suddenly I'm in the middle of the beach's hot spot, everything seemingly concentrated on wiping out my workings. What's going on? I walk around to the seaward side of the wall and discover those southbound sluicers have stopped, yes, but they've carried away the sand beneath the seaweed-reinforced wall. Nothing I can do will help this. Now we're in a race: which ends first, the high tide or the sculpture? The time is 1100. I wait. The form is full. I watch. That big wave completely changed the beach when it drove in and 150 feet past me. The cusp has moved back about ten feet and its old location a foot lower, leaving my defended construction site as the highest point. More waves hit and the top of the wall topples into the racing salt. Even the Netherlanders have watched land they've so laboriously drained be retaken by the ocean. Neptune is patient. More waves come over the cusp and flow around me. Sue, a friend of the Madsens, has to step lively to keep it out of her shoes, hiding behind my crumbling wall. Seaweed protrudes in sloppy lines from a cliff. Another six inches and we're gone, no more protection, the kelp undermind and washed away. Another few minutes and we can write finis before the first tool hits the pile. There is still great tumult out there. Waves boom on the rocks, surfers measure their height against steep green walls and foam flies everywhere. I can feel the crash of ocean-spanning energy against immovable stone and the spray coats my glasses. Even Neptune listens to Cynthia, however, and her influence is moving on west. A good look around the site reveals just how close I came to having the day end before a tool hit the pile. The wall is undermined and only a few inches thick. That close. Minutes, only. Don't call it a victory. Call it instead getting away with another one by as narrow a margin as can be. I know who the real sculptor is. 3. The Want of a ToolWell, we've been handed a reprieve. I pop the latches and reveal a well-packed block of sand better than I've had in two months. Now the only challenge is to turn it into something more interesting than a solid elliptical prism. The sand is good enough that I dust off some of my old ideas for sculptures with spreading tops. I cut a long slanting line from top to bottom and then a parallel a few inches to the south. This ends about two thirds of the way down and leaves a part of the pile behind it. This projecting part I carve into a slightly curved overhang by tucking its lower part in; the upper part will get some small holes. Big holes will take the space behind it, but, lucky as we were with the tide, I think light will be in short supply. The air is murky with vapor and views short. Sunlight makes its way to the beach, but it's much attenuated. My tired and sore shoulders appreciate it anyway. What hurts the most is the lack of my #1 Loop Tool. It's my favorite tool for general carving, opening spaces, starting lines and trimming gross structures. I miss it. Other tools do some of its job but none is so generally useful. When the time comes for fine work I reach for the Steel Pinky and then remember that it too is gone. Damn. There's no tool to replace it and some parts of the sculpture look rough because I just can't reach them with other tools and they're too delicate to smooth by hand. John Gowdy says that a sculptor shouldn't have too many tools. I disagree. There's no reason not have a tool for each job, to make it easier? Other than staring at the tool tub, trying to find the one you want. 4. SerenadeAnna has her transverse flute with her. That silver has to be cold. The melodies are beautiful, making a nice accompaniment to carving. A few years ago my sister played her great highland bagpipe while I made a sculpture. That instrument dominated the beach. The flute insinuates its way through the ambient booms and rushes, audible more through uniqueness than volume. Gentleness doesn't conquer, nor is it conquered. 5. DesignThere's a kind of hairpin curve leaning against the long slanting slab. I like the width of this piece on the west side, but don't want that thickness on the back. When the time comes to carve back there I make it a small space with a thin edge. Once again I wish for the Loop because it would get in there. Below that cut I'd intended to leave a broad surface with small holes, but that doesn't look right. I remove most of the sand, leaving only a very thin organic strut. To its right I bore four holes through to the west, to its left a vertical hole behind the horizontal element that came straight from the pictures of 96F-14 that a passerby was looking at. This piece develops into an interesting mix of straight lines, big slabs, delicate parts, holes small and large, some round, some shaped. "Do you ever stop before you've carved out as much as you can?" Anna asks.
"I used to have a problem with that. I'd carve everything I could find and quit only when I ran out of daylight. In the last few years, however, I've been more interested in design and I've tried to quit when it looks right. Starting last year I've tried to balance complexity and simplicity." She's right. It was unconscious, but I've wound up giving some aspects of the sculpture a sort of design center. Every snowflake has, at its core, a speck of dust around which the supercooled water coalesced. Under the top bend of the hairpin I bore three small holes; these with their tails serve as an off-center design center for the whole cavity, right to the ground. There needs to be room for surprises. Other design centers didn't work so well. The ribs on the projected southern rib need some help. 6. Sudden Sunset"It's about three o'clock." I'm not very pleased with a few areas on this piece. The bottom is rather undeveloped, but that's not such a bad thing. Call it simplicity that helps support the complexity, and there's plenty of that above. Cleaning it up takes forever. I don't have the proper tools and have to make do with stand-ins. Gradually the sculpture shines more clearly in the sunset light. Finally I clean up the base, scatter loose sand and sign it. Then I just keel over. The gathered spectators break into applause. And laughter. Anna provides musical accompaniment for the video announcement, and then the walkaround. The light is very soft, sunlight filtered through thick haze. Suddenly even that is gone. The sun is quenched behind an opaque curtain. The wind comes up, cold. Anna puts away her flute and bundles up to the extent she can. Rich brought her here, and he won't leave until it's time to drag the trailer off the beach. She gets the good sport award for the day for standing beside me, uncomplaining. I move over and put my arm over her shoulder. "It's cold out here. I'm finished." I load the trailer and David accompanies Rich and me as we drag it away. The sculpture stands proud in the gloom on its handmade headland. 7. FinisThe last hill on my way home nearly finishes me. Exhausted, yes, but also flying. Good sculptures do that; I won't sleep tonight. What a sculpture. Never done anything like it. After getting some dinner it's time to crow. If you're a painter you can talk to other painters. If you're a motorcycle racer you can talk to fans. If you're a sand sculptor, well, your choices are limited. If you're non-representational sand sculptor, you're just plain out of luck, especially when 90% of your fans were on the beach. So, I call Larry. Not home. Must still be at Sabba Bernie's. "Hi. My name is Larry Nelson." This poor woman, getting a call from a stranger at 2200. "Is Larry Lump there?" I want to identify myself as someone who knows at least some of the family. "Hello, Mr. Lump. Are you thrashed?" "Hi, Etc." The Kolehmainens had left a message while I was talking to others. "Happy New Year." The night passes slowly, even after the bottle of Lindeman's Framboise ale. Lots of tossing and turning. Finally I get some sleep and wake up just in time to call work. I open the new, 2002, tide book. Its pages are unmarked, still smooth, lacking the use that a year of turning pages will produce. I pick up a pen and make the first marks on the first page. 02F-1, LS229, with starting and ending times. "The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there." Visitors:
Report written 2002 January 2 March 24 (HTML conversion All contents designed and made by Larry Nelson |