02F-16   "Bonfire"

Where Are the Roots?

"What are you drawing, Larry?"
"Ideas for sand sculpture, Gabe. I've been thinking of this dendritic design for a long time, and it's about time to do something with it."
"Dendritic?"
"Yes. Like trees. The branches ramify into dendritic structures, like the ends of your nerve cells."
"Crazy Larry."

Visible infrastructure. Most artists work in studios.

Where does a plant come from? You put a seed into the ground, water it and eventually a plant comes up and you don't even think that much about it. The process is described as growth, and that handy term has become so common that no one knows what it means.

That seed needs lots of help. Microorganisms break down the organic material in the soil so the plant can use it. Other microorganisms help the plant use the resultant chemicals, along with tiny animals. Bigger animals move around, aerating the soil. Take away any of these and the plant fails but you never see them; you just see the dead plant so you buy more seeds.

The major question for tomorrow's sculpture is how many. Last week's multiple was interesting; I'd like to try it again.
"I think you should try two." This comes from the man who faithfully walks his dogs every morning and evening. I'm standing by the trailer trying to figure out how many forms to load.
"You may be right. I'd like to." The problem with that is finish quality; there's only so much time and it can be spent in basic sculpture or finish. Sculpture is more fun, but finish is important. The man leads his dogs away. I decide in favor of finish quality and load the long form.

1. Footprints and Seaweed

South of the storm drain pipe is where the good sand lies. The area is soon pocked with prospect holes as I search for the best sand. When I find the spot I load four buckets with very good sand and haul them up the beach. Load the filter, drop it into the form, dump in a bucket of water, swish the sand out, tamp. Repeat. There's nothing like job security. Fifty-three inches to go, one inch at a time.

"I just got back from vacation." This is one of the regulars. "We went to the Galapagos. You know . . ."
I nod my head.
"It was fantastic. We were on a sailing ship, just eight of us, and the guide knew how to get to places before the crowds. We had to walk carefully so we wouldn't step on birds or lizards."
"It sounds great."

He walks on sand. Anyone can do that but his purpose is special, and the comparison with another savior apt except that today it's for real.
"Hi, Maurice."
"Hi, Larry. Nice to see you."
"And likewise." But even more so.
"Get on up there and I'll hand you the filter."
"Great. Thanks. My next form is going to be a few inches shorter so I don't have to use the stepstool." Stepping up and down twice per cycle takes energy, and even small amounts become critical through the course of a long day.

"We're out of sand." Mauricio takes the cart away. I walk the other way for two buckets of water, and then pick up the filter and another bucket, and walk to the borrow pit.
"I love mindless work."
"It is a nice change from all the thinking at the office. No eagle-eye supervisors, no upset citizens."
"Yes."
I walk back up the beach with my light load, and finish packing the sand by the time Mauricio returns with the cart loaded.
We work steadily. Puns and discussion help.

"I hope Jennifer notices this."
"How so?"
"Maybe she'll see that I'm really interested, so I can get the family together for a trip down here."
I think about that. There's another way. "You know, we could build a sand box in your back yard. It'd be cheap."
"Where would we get the sand?"
"A sand pit. Or we got to Soledad Canyon."
"Is that any good?"
"Yes. I was on my way to your place last year and found a spot. I thought about doing a sculpture there. We could swipe the sand."
"You think two trailer loads?"
"That should do for a start, anyway."

Hovering over the shoreline are low clouds that attenuate the sunlight enough to keep us cool. They dissipate as the seawind picks up but by then their job is done. The sand underfoot is warm but the air keeps us cool; the clouds were a gift from the same unknown helper of one-day beach sand sculptors that managed the weather on my last two outings.

"We're almost there."
"Good."
"We'll need about a bucket and a half of sand."
He takes off with two empties and I yell after him "That's two three-quarters!" He returns with two full buckets, and then he loads about twenty pounds into the filter. I almost fall off the step-bucket.
"Was that too much?"
"Just a little. I'm not built like you."
The next two are lighter.
"That's it. This form is as full as it has ever been." Almost to the top.

2. Do You Know Where Your Fundament Is?

That means narrowing the top so it doesn't overpower the base. The first cuts go in this direction, making the first of what should be three curving legs to make the top arch. Organize plans rapidly fall apart as the sand suggests other ways of approaching the problem. Balancing all the ideas is hard enough; sticking with one particular idea nearly impossible. The arch soon grows internal complications whose ramifications will affect the whole sculpture.

This is always a problem. What's on top depends upon the bottom; it's not called a foundation for nothing. There's more to it than weight, also; as soon as holes appear, the vertical forces start acquiring horizontal components. It may not collapse, but it can peel right off the side unless there's enough cross-section for the packed sand's tensile strength to hold pieces on.

So, those internal complications add weight. This figures into how much bottom the sculpture needs. I trim everything to about as thin as I think will work.

There are design considerations too. Removing sand makes the structure lighter, but maybe the design is better with the sand in place. I walk around and decide: this sand stays, this sand goes, and here we can poke a hole through that will be hidden from all but two points of view. The combination looks good, but there's still the whole bottom.

Broad panels block the light but are good-looking. Narrow pieces have structural problems, but what if they go farther into the sculpture? It's an idea whose time seems to have come, in order to handle the load imposed by the arch assembly's west leg. I carve the slots below the thick knot of the arch's end. The result is far from outstanding, but maybe it'll get better when daylight enters.

"Before I go any farther, I'm going to shoot contingency video. The next steps are fairly threatening." On unsteady feet, with cramping arms, I walk around the sculpture.

People stop to watch. Maybe their fascination with this process comes from seeing its infrastructure spread out all over the beach. The cart, the buckets, the tools and everything else is right here, not hidden in a studio. The seed and its support are here and only patience is required to see the process, unlike the seed whose work is invisible.

Then I go to work drilling holes. The cramps get worse; it's a really good pile of sand, and that's why I'm digging like this. If any pile will put up with this kind of abuse it'll be this one. The west-side slots are placed at different angles and I hope that at least one of them will admit light to the sculpture's heart.

Sculpture fatigue is setting in. The work week was fairly demanding. I hope I don't make judgement errors right now.

"What is it?"
"Whatever you'd like it to be."
"You've been blessed by God to make this."
"Well, it does feel like a gift, and I'm glad. Creativity is the only reason I can think of to continue living, and sand sculpture is a great way to be creative."
"Sand sculpture is your reason for living?"
"Creativity in general. Sand sculpture is one part."
He wanders off. "I'm guilty, Rich. Baiting evangelicals is just too easy."

"You have enough time to make another one!"
"Yah, Rich, but who's going to do it? I've about had it." There is plenty of daylight left, but very little sculptor. "I'm just going to clean it up."
That's a big enough task in itself. Trim and brush, rub the ridges out and brush again.

"Hi, guys." It's the popsicle salesman, toting his cooler full of what I assume are slushy overpriced colored ice. "This is really neat." He turns to go. "Tell you what. Have a Super Pop on me, the same one that has been sold for the last fifty years by every ice cream truck in the land. Full of artificial color, artificial flavor and sugar, just the way we like them." He opens the cooler. Dry ice fumes in the bottom among the few popsicles.
"I only have one flavor left. But they're all the same anyway." He takes out two and hands them to Rich and me. "Enjoy, guys. Blessings upon you." He turns away. I try to take a bite. "Eat that slowly. It's cold!"
"That dry ice works better than I expected." It's a nice treat, but not enough to restore my brain.

3. The Long Day Is Ending

Having forgotten again to buy batteries for my LX, my photography is limited to the little XA2 "Baggiemat." It does a very good job and is easy to carry around. It fits in any pocket, unlike the video camera that needs its own bag and space on the trailer.

After I finish the video there's still lots of daylight left. Amazing.

The sculpture also is amazing. For one thing, to get this done in ten hours is remarkable. There's a lot of missing sand, and the remaining sand is very complexly carved. Technically it's quite an achievement. It reminds me of "Dance," from the summer of 1996. By the standards of that day this is a better piece, but standards have changed and I feel disappointment.

"It's a good one."
"I don't know, Rich. It looks sort of stretched out, like taffy."
"It looks more like a forest than a tree. Or, more like a bonfire than a candle." "Yah. That sounds like a good name, too."

He's right. I've gotten used to less flamboyant designs, sculptures that hide their more complex parts inside very simple panels so they can't be seen from all angles. This sculpture has no secrets. My design sense has gone more in the direction of making candles, one unified piece. This one is more of a piece than some of its predecessors, combining the complexity of 1998's excess with more modern unity. I really should be proud of it.

It certainly gets the foot vote. Lots of people stop, for photos, for questions, just to look. One man asks if I can make it clay for his store, and implores me to call him for details. I wonder if he's serious. I wonder if I'm interested in the idea. If I had any brain left I might be able to talk about it and make some sense. As it is I just give up and take his card.

The sun moves west and the day turns lightly golden.
"Look at that, Rich. I'd like to take credit for it, but I can't lie. It was an accident." One of the sculpture's long vertical ridges is brightly lit against shaded parts, and points directly at long spots of light inside the deepest recess. Near the top the various connecting webs glow from light thrice reflected around the sculpture's inside. This was entirely unplanned, and is lovely. George should be here. He'd finally have something to photograph. The holes have bright rims; each grain of sand picks up the low sun and burns against the shadows. I shoot such details with the video camera because I can operate it in my somnambulant state.

"Here. Have some calories."
Rich and I are sitting on the tidal bluff, watching the world go by as the day slides westward against the cooling breeze. He hands me a piece of nan left over from their dinner.
"I didn't know you could get leftovers from an all-you-can-eat restaurant."
"Lorna wanted some food to take home, so we asked for a box for a third meal. They wouldn't let us pay for it. Could have been because it was a very slow day, and they had enough food for all the help and then some."
"They're nice people, too." I've eaten there with them.
"Yes."
We munch on bread and cookies. The tide has turned and the isthmus is gradually disappearing.

"Rich, I'm toast." I pack up and we drag the loads across the beach. Rich is an awfully good sport for putting up with this. At the end of the day it's a great kindness.
"Good night. I'll keep you posted on plans."
"Good night."
I ride away steadily northward. Just put one pedal around after the other.

Water runs over my body, washing the remains of the day away as the tide is doing with the sculpture. Sand and sweat. Only the memories, underground and invisible, remain to feed another sculpture.

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