shiranuikaii

i think mostly people think, when imagining how glass is cut, that you use a saw, or a special knife, and it goes through all the way like cutting anything else. when you hand cut glass, you use a glass cutter, which is a little tiny sharp wheel with a handle, to score the glass. it introduces a point of weakness. then you break it. you can use your hands, the edge of a counter, a special tool called running pliers, grozers, tap it with the end of the glass cutter, it doesn’t matter. you introduce a crack, and the break, ideally, follows the weakness you’ve introduced to the glass via scoreline, and your glass is cut.

curves are more difficult. glass likes to break along straight lines, crystalline. sharp curves can become impossible; inside curves are notoriously hard. sometimes the glass has inherent weaknesses, invisible until tested, that will ruin your break. some glass is much harder to break than other glass. some glass gives like putty, elegantly twisting, sweet in your hands. some glass is so tough that you may never coax it into the shape you want.

i don’t like thinking about this metaphorically. i don’t want to apply the logic to myself. people are not glass. people are not glass.

i like to work with curves. even though they’re the hardest part, even though i waste glass when i fail. i love circles, sharp dips, peaks and valleys. curves so sharp they refuse to break; curves so deep i burn out bits early grinding the glass into shape when i cannot convince it to take the score. stubbornly chasing projects that would make far more experienced artists than me frown at the pattern. i can’t stop myself. i want what i want. it’s my glass, my money to waste, my energy and time.

i don’t like thinking about that metaphorically either. people aren’t glass. i’m not glass.

you might be surprised how much glass can take. i’ve gotten much more familiar with how to handle it, what kind of pressures to use, when to be gentle, careful, and when i can relax. it becomes exponentially stronger as the pieces get smaller. below an inch or so, i could fumble and drop a bit of glass on the floor without flinching- that won’t break. above twelve by twelve, i start to move pieces vertically. if you handle a large enough piece of glass carelessly, hold it horizontal for too long or at the wrong angles or with the wrong pressure, it can spontaneously break under its own weight- more than that, you can introduce hidden weaknesses, exacerbate them, create problems for yourself later.

i don’t like metaphors in my glass studio.

i make a lot of nature pieces. a cicada wing, a moth. honeycombs. mushrooms. a windchime inspired by cattails, a panel of cattails. flowers. sunrises. i like to create in the image of soft things, things that would bend, things that aren’t brittle. matte things, opaque things. something about the contrast is satisfying. i want to see them lit up, vibrant & translucent, that holy quality that puts stained glass in church windows. forever-crocus. shining dusty insects. organic, messy, elemental shapes, curves and curves, soft and straining, glowing. coaxing cracks that want to fly across the surface into the channel the scoreline dug. it doesn’t come away neat. it comes away sharp. you always need to grind down the edges, every time, on every piece you cut.

i don’t like metaphors these days. i’m so tired. i don’t force my mind into tight curves anymore. i save that for the glass. my head i draw straight paths for, shallow and forgiving and slow in the turns. i’m not glass. i’m not glass

sometimes i buy scrap glass- bits that came off other people’s bigger projects, big enough to work with but oddly shaped. once in a while those pieces will have scorelines drawn across them- evidence of somebody’s failed break, their abandoned attempts. the first thing i always do with those pieces is finish the break. i don’t want to reach for it thinking there’s more unblemished glass there than there actually is. don’t like unfinished business.

i’m not glass i’m not glass i’m not glass i’m not glass i’m not

those scraps are always good. sometimes they’re surprisingly big, always cheap. perfectly functional and beautiful glass, just in off dimensions. it’s enjoyable to make a puzzle out of it- figure out what pattern will work, what pieces will fit. what can i make out of this? where can i put it? what function will it have, no longer discarded?

i’m not glass i’m not glass i’m not glass

i made a nightlight out of some beautiful scrap pieces, added details to a lamp with others. lots of scrap in my luna moth- highlights and entire chimes of my windchime. i made an entire, gorgeous poppy flower, bigger than my hand, out of only scrap red pieces. red is the most expensive color of glass, did you know that? it’s made with gold- always has been. i guess it’s just the best way to do it, still, even if it makes it pricy. i don’t really buy whole red sheets, just because the prices make me wince. even the castoffs are more expensive than other scrap.

i’m not glass

i’m really proud of that poppy- i wish i had taken more pictures before i gave it away. it went to my tattoo artist. maybe i’ll make another one sometime. orange could be fun, even if it’s less traditional poppy color. i’ve always liked poppies

i’m not

just because they’re so simple and delicate. all symbolism aside. their petals are so thin- it’s like paper, like four sheets of tissue paper wrapped around. i actually don’t think i’ve ever tried growing them- maybe i should try growing them this year

i’m not

i think that would be nice. i could have the glass poppy in my window and look out into my garden and have them there too. i’d like that

i’m not

i think that would be nice. you can see the sun through poppy flower petals, actually, i think, because they’re so thin. they’re like stained glass flowers

i’m