02F-15   "I Am Not An Ox"

The Horizon of Despair

The first thing they say, meeting me on the beach, is that I should figure out some way to get paid for doing sand sculpture. I nod my head, they walk on and I go back to carving, safe in the knowledge that my hazy ideas about commercial sand sculpture will never be tested. Why think about something that will never happen? Oh, yes, people call me to ask if I will do a sculpture for them but the result is always another rejection.

The years go by, the craft improves, ideas change. It has become a fierce process, total concentration for a day on the beach. There are also supporting actions taken at home in building specialized equipment and tools. All of this has one purpose: producing the best sand sculpture I can make each time I'm there. Compromises are engineered out, excuses not tolerated. Learn and build.

When a co-worker paid me $500 to videotape his wedding I didn't know quite what to think. Or feel. I'd intended to do it for free, as a learning experience. That sort of put a figure to the value of a day's work, and I used it as a guide for the ones who called for a sand sculpture; if the design didn't put them off, the price would.

How can one have a reason for not doing something, when it hasn't been tried? MTV called, wanting a sand sculpture lesson for the stars of a dating show. I quoted a price, they mulled it over and called me back. Amazing as that in itself was, what they said was even more so. We had a deal.

Money has value only in relation to what it allows one to do. Seventeen years ago, $500 would have seemed like a reason to celebrate, a minor miracle. Today it pales beside the possible uses. More than a drop in a bucket, but certainly far less than a bucketful.

I went down and made the sculpture for MTV. They handed me a check. I felt something like an ox's yoke settle around my neck. It was faint, that feeling, but it was there.

Why it felt like a yoke didn't become clear for a time. After MTV, I did a sculpture with some friends; the main objective was to produce a videotape for the library. A week later another TV producer called and I ended up doing a sculpture for them. Finally, a development company called and wanted me to lead their team in a sand sculpture contest. We won.

Maybe I need a different build number for commercial sculpture, as in 02C-1. The "C" stands for "Compromise." Time, location and end result all demand a different approach; when economic considerations enter, artistic ones are driven away or at least into the background. Make it stand, make it on time, make it where we tell you to. It's even worse than a contest. Even when they don't tell me what to make the requirements turn a difficult task into one nearly impossible. Suddenly the pony that had delighted in running and kicking up his heels has to perform on demand, in sequence, and something inside the poor creature dies.

Life is based on something simultaneously strong and weak. It's strong in that most of the time, people don't quit. It's very fragile in that it doesn't take much to leach the color and spark from each day's existence. When that goes away, what's the point? Why plod on when there's nothing more to expect?

I survived high school only through the belief that, while everyone else in the outfit was a better student than I, I could create. I'd go home and work on a new glider, designing for beauty, engineering for flight. Economic pressures led to other decisions that eventually led to the west coast but no matter where I went I didn't fit. Attempts to change myself didn't work.

Sand sculpture should sparkle. Each piece should be a surprise working out of an agreement between sand and hands and mind. The only limits should be real ones: ability, sensitivity, skills, daylight, energy. The color is subtle but it's there and it fills me for days afterward. With the routine of year-around sand sculpture for the last few years, I've sort of forgotten this. Until it went away.

Maybe that's the lesson to learn from the last couple of months. I wasn't so far off in high school. Creativity is a surprisingly robust foundation for a life.

1. A Concatenation of Surprise

At this hour, on a sculpture day, the caller could only be Larry. The voice doesn't match. Who is this? Expectations play funny games; any other time, I'd have identified Mauricio immediately.
"I wanted to call to tell you I got your Email."
I sent this report's leader, written before the fact, to a few people.
"I'd been wondering how all the commercial work was affecting you. I'm glad to see you've seen what that's doing, and you're going to do one for yourself. I'm going to come out and support you. Be there in an hour or so."
Most of the time I'm alone. People don't understand so I stop trying to explain. Mauricio's understanding warms the morning and lightens the burden of getting ready.

Smooth sand fills the space behind the breakwater. It's a perfect stage for a sculpture, produced by the season's tidal patterns. A relaxed breeze blows inland, scenting the area with salt and seaweed. Some of the swells are big, pounding the breakwater and breaking into flying spray.

"Hi, Larry. My wife pointed out, at the last minute, that your Email said you'd be here today. I thought it would be tomorrow."
"Makes sense; usually I do work on Saturdays but Fridays are better in the summer."
"The problem is I have meetings so can't stay very long, but I'll do what I can." Helping with sand sculpture has sent men a third Bob's age running.
"I appreciate any help." Soon he's at work filling buckets with water and hauling them up the beach in the cart. I build a big base for tide insurance and set up the form.

Bob worked in the movie industry and is still active with various committees. We always wind up talking about movies and how they're made. To me it's an example of magic gone awry, a shining tool used for hoeing potatoes. This doesn't contribute to getting a sculpture made, but who cares? The day is long. We get a good start on it and then he has to leave.

It's good sand, collected along the storm drain. It has that nice creamy texture that is such a delight to carve, and the cart makes bearable the work of hauling it. On my way back to the construction site I realize my sprayer is missing. Uh, oh. In the winter I might be able to get by without it but not in July, even on a day that's relatively cool.

Dave, the lifeguard, drives up.
"All of the sand disappeared last night. That manhole was covered yesterday."
"I know the tide was high last night; there are lots of grunion eggs in the sand up here." "That's right. They come in when the tide's at its peak."
"I wonder how they know." These little fish are a marvel, the females drilling into the sand with their tails to deposit their eggs where they will be hit by the next spring tide, a month hence.
"Yesterday was a 6.5, today is 6.1. Yep. They know. Well, I need to continue my patrol." He drives off, across the flat that has subtle marks of the grunion written in its surface.

Dressed for work, Mauricio walks on the dry sand.
"Hi, Larry. What do you want me to do?"
"Does Martha know you're here?"
"Heck, no!"
"Well, what I'm going to do is teach you how to pack. Then I have to go home and get the sprayer."
"Let's go."
"First, we need sand. Down there along the pipe. Darker is better on this beach. Load up as much as you care to haul." The rising tide is close to closing out the borrow pits. "Tamping is critical. You don't have to whale away at it, but you do need to hit it. No love pats. Keep at least four inches of water on top, to wash the sand out of the filter. Yah, that's it. You're doing fine. I'll be back in twenty minutes or so. Remember: if you screw this up, the sculpture falls over."
"Thank you." We laugh.

"How's it going?"
"No problems so far."
I pick up the tamper and give the pile a couple of whacks. "Feels good."
"Yeah. I figure if I can feel the pounding in my feet, I'm hitting it hard enough."
"That's what I like about working with you. You know how to work. I don't have to explain every little detail."
We work together on the rest of it. He fills the filter and hands it up to me. I empty it, hand it back and tamp while he fills it again.
"That's it. We're done. Sorry about all the leftover sand." The pile has developed quite a lean to the east and I don't want to fill it all the way in case the lean is caused by problems in the base. We dump the leftovers between the sculpture and the rising water.
"The tide should stop right about here. Unless I misjudged something."

2. Idea Storm

This one is more important than most. After having to restrain my design desires I can now cut loose. With the top's shape defined it's time to start digging. I pick up the Bigger Loop and go at it.
"Wow!"
Mauricio's eyes are big. Sand falls steadily. "Yah. It's a good tool. Fast." I give him a smile. No one is used to seeing this kind of digging in a sand sculpture, but tools make it possible. Dense packing gives the strength to hold the shapes, but only a good tool is strong enough to carve them. If you'd given me a pile like this in 1984 it would have taken me two days to carve it with the tools of the period. In 1982, when my vision went no farther than an arch, this whole thing would have been unimaginable.

Carving proceeds as Mauricio and I talk. Sculpture, children, art, construction. Planning and design. He helped make my Bigfoot Tamper, and I point out where I had to rebuild its business end with stronger screws. We talk of compromise and vision and the future.

Today's vision was for a nice, elegant arch over the top with lots of space underneath. That lightweight, simple top would be supported by a complex lower section, but the plan goes by the board when it just seems too simple. The top arch develops instead into panels over a large space, with a round hole near the top. Panels twist and curve smoothly.

"I'm on the phones this afternoon, so I have to leave."
"Well, thank you for your help. It'll be a better sculpture"
"I didn't do much."
"It's still help. I hope you don't get into trouble."
"No worries." Typical response. There really isn't much anyone can do except yell, which always makes life less comfortable. He doesn't care much. He walks away across the sand, back to the rest of the world.

3. Slow, Subtle

There's a time for bold strokes and a time for subtle ones. Curves that have to fit with other curves benefit from cutting and looking, cutting and looking and trimming and final shaping with gentle finger pressure.

Time also permits looking at all sides of the sculpture with the aim of making sure it looks like a sculpture instead of a lot of parts. The parts need to be interesting, but they need to support the larger piece's shape. How do you make a choir out of a bunch of soloists? Someone has to direct, and the soloists have to be willing to subordinate themselves to the overall goal.

In the past I've been an unwilling director. Choke down on ideas too hard and they stop showing up. Balance, however, seems to work, freedom and control interwoven while always leaving room for surprises. Today I take the time to walk around the sculpture, using energy that normally would have gone into pounding sand for keeping track of the design.

Beauty is the goal. It's made of feeling and sight, echoes of what I've seen and new ideas. It's always changing and it's always at the mercy of engineering. If the sculpture isn't standing, it has a hard time being beautiful.

There are places for complexity and places for simplicity. Rich and I look at one part of the sculpture and I sketch in ideas for a hole. It just doesn't work. I try different shapes and it still doesn't work.
"I hate to say it, Larry, but I think that place just doesn't need a hole."
"Give me a little warning before you say things like that, Rich. I'm not used to the shock."

4. Lesson

"How do you start this?"
"I use that green fabric over there. It stands up and makes a cylinder and I pack the sand inside. But you don't have to use a form." I look over to where the sea slops over the storm drain. "Come here a minute." Where the sand is wet I demonstrate free-piling. "You can do this almost anywhere."

5. Detail

Then I bore in, between a wedge-shaped extension of the sculpture's interior and the broad panel's midsection. This space connects with the ellipsoid hole. I shape this space to fit well, with a ledge defining its lower edge. The detail contrasts nicely with the broad expanse of sand curving out above it.

6. Light

I work my way around the sculpture, refining its shapes. Even this can proceed in a leisurely fashion on this long summer afternoon. This sculpture depends more upon the good fit of details to make it work than most of what I've made. When it works it looks great.

I wanted more space near the base, but the top is too heavy to permit it. At least the mass is hidden well behind interesting designs.

Call it bright overcast. It's perfect for black-and-white photography, the kind of light that just begs for a big camera and a tripod. I didn't bring either, but the Baggiemat stands in with its usual unobtrusive competence.

The light is less salubrious for video. Color is very low-key and shadows softly drawn. As the sun goes west, however, it finds larger holes that allow clear light to flood the beach. After the overcast these rays look like searchlights.

Details on the sculpture come alive under the direct light. Arcs and circles, spaces, holes producing on interior surfaces. It's all quite fleeting as the clouds move and change. Be quick on that shutter button. Hesitate and the light turns to cement, but wait a bit longer and something else will happen.

7. Completion

Two women walk up.
"Who did this?"
"I did. I'm the guilty party."
"It's beautiful! How did you make it?"
"I made a cylindric block of sand, using a form. You can't see it; it's rolled up on the trailer. Then I carve it."
"What's it about?"
"Just done for the sake of doing it."
"Yes. He was desperate for this one!" Rich adds.
"Yah, the last few have been commercial. This one is just for me."
"The best kind."
"You're right."
"What do you use for carving?"
"Mostly homemade tools. They're on the trailer." I get up and lead them over to the tool tub and show them a few tools.
"I wish I had a chance to try this."
"Will you be back?"
"Oh, I'm up here all the time."
"Well, let me know when you'll be up here and I'll give you a lesson. You don't have to have all of this equipment."
"I'll do that. I'll trade you a massage for the lesson."
"That would certainly rub me the right way."
They continue their interrupted walk, heading north. Rich and I return to the bluff and sit down again, just watching the sun move.

The difference is subtle, almost indetectable, nearly indescribable, but sculpture is much better without the yoke. Even with gold-plated padding I felt it. It remains in memory. A warning? A challenge?

Rich and I walk the load across the beach. Nuclear flame sends our shadows racing ahead far faster than we can deal with the stubborn impedimenta of a dream made sort of real.

Started July 11 (leader)
Written July 14 (main sections)
HTML conversion August 18