What am I looking at?  a reciprocating saw with the longest blade i could find, clamped to a workbench with a piece of plywood as a spacer.  A little guide block at the end of the blade gives support.  I applied paraffin wax to the  plywood in order to keep the hot glue from dragging while pushing it through the blade.

…about an hour later…

That’s a lot of refinished foam!

It’s not the whole thing that is in ruins, just this one set of pieces that I’m determined to see happen. I guess it’s back to the GLEANing floor (drawing table) for me.

I guess this is what I really love about this project, and residencies in general. I feel like it’s a time to experiment or work out some problem that has been plaguing me. It is definitely a material problem and I just don’t have it worked out yet.

GLEANing is such junkfood, feeding my scrappy sweet tooth. I look forward to it very much; I can taste it. Getting lost in the act of artistic creation on this project has been so enjoyable, but it doesn’t compare to gleaning, even on a slow day. Each item I find has a potential that I can only just begin to unlock while at the transfer station. Some things, have been too good to leave behind, even without knowing what I’ll make of them.

As my mountain of junk has grown, I got a tummy ache and have had to cut back — not enough room and not enough time to make art out of it all! I’ve really had to refine my palate — quickly going from a pig to a picky eater. Never, ever thought that would happen, but I never thought I’d like brussels sprouts either. Lately, I’ve been gleaning just for specific items to complete pieces and am really trying to avoid binging.

What is the difference between this

and this?

Ode To Broken Things

Things get broken
at home
like they were pushed
by an invisible, deliberate smasher.
It’s not my hands
or yours
It wasn’t the girls
with their hard fingernails
or the motion of the planet.
It wasn’t anything or anybody
It wasn’t the wind
It wasn’t the orange-colored noontime
Or night over the earth
It wasn’t even the nose or the elbow
Or the hips getting bigger
or the ankle
or the air.
The plate broke, the lamp fell
All the flower pots tumbled over
one by one. That pot
which overflowed with scarlet
in the middle of October,
it got tired from all the violets
and another empty one
rolled round and round and round
all through winter
until it was only the powder
of a flowerpot,
a broken memory, shining dust.

And that clock
whose sound
was
the voice of our lives,
the secret
thread of our weeks,
which released
one by one, so many hours
for honey and silence
for so many births and jobs,
that clock also
fell
and its delicate blue guts
vibrated
among the broken glass
its wide heart
unsprung.

Life goes on grinding up
glass, wearing out clothes
making fragments
breaking down
forms
and what lasts through time
is like an island on a ship in the sea,
perishable
surrounded by dangerous fragility
by merciless waters and threats.

Let’s put all our treasures together
– the clocks, plates, cups cracked by the cold –
into a sack and carry them
to the sea
and let our possessions sink
into one alarming breaker
that sounds like a river.
May whatever breaks
be reconstructed by the sea
with the long labor of its tides.
So many useless things
which nobody broke
but which got broken anyway

Pablo Neruda

I also found this lovely little trooper clinging to one of the building columns:

So-down to business now. I think perhaps the interview process for the GLEAN residency should include one more question. “Are you a pack-rat or do you have hoarding issues?” I, well, I do. I don’t actually know if that makes me more or less suited for this type of work. My last show, Cumulus, explored the theme of hoarding because it is on my mind a lot and I am often confronted with space issues. Throughout my life I have often had dreams of homes full to the ceiling of things. At different times in my life I have interpreted it differently and I am currently in a constant battle to streamline. Nevertheless, I removed 350 lbs from the Transfer Station today…happily.

I need to talk about my dad for a minute. Each time I glean, I go right for the broken glass. For years, when a car got broken into in the neighborhood, I would collect the broken auto glass. It goes back to my childhood and, as I stared into the broken glass ocean today, I thought of dad.

Dad did auto salvage and towing. I grew up with broken glass. Because of my dad, I understood recycling and the impact of our junk on a different level. I got to go to the junkyard, carry hand fulls of auto glass in my pockets (pretending they were diamonds). I was in love with that claw that bit the cars and picked them up. I have no fear of materials and I always thank dad for that. It was clear that he preferred to teach his son things like welding and pulling apart cars, after all Jr would follow in his footsteps, but I worked for and valued his attention, especially once I got to college and I knew my work made him proud. It makes me smile when I think how he would have reacted to hearing about this program. It would be one grunt, kind of a “ha!”. Then he would kick back in his chair and look dreamy for a minute. Then he’d say excitedly, “Hey, Vic-ya know what you should do?”

I guess that is why I had to bring home these three 2×8′ panels of safety glass. I really have no idea how they are going to fit into this work but I felt emotionally attached to them. I saw an employee dragging one into the garbage pile and he said it couldn’t be recycled (which made me want it more). There were several of them. I stopped at three, sighting the rule of design that says groups of three are more interesting than 2 or 4. Toward the end of my day I found three pieces of plywood cut at exactly the same dimensions. Kismet!

I think I have gleaned enough for a while, now. I’m going back tomorrow but just to sort out a few “maybes”. Nothing new! I hope anyway. Here are a few of the textural scores I brought home today. In case you’re curious, that image that looks like a bee box with beeswax in it…yup.