I have always had a fascination with
glass bottles. New, old, used, pristine, it really doesn't matter. I am not a
collector of a certain type of bottle but rather let the shape, texture,
labeling speak to me. I have my favorites, hand blown greenish glass, most of
which hail from Mexico. Then there are the solid, standard wine bottles that
have that fun indentation in the bottom that reminds me of a cheat in a card
game....taking some of the contents of the wine space and the consumer doesn't
even notice. I love these bottles empty. It's like exposing their intent. And
of course there are the antique bottles with or without labels that are made of
what????? and held what?????? I am an addict.
It is my love of glass that lead me to
working with the glass in my art. I have for many years been engrossed in mixed
media endeavors. Combining elements that most folks would think at first glance
would never go together in a piece is one of the most fulfilling things I have
ever tried. Textures of hard, soft, scratchy, smooth, cold, warm are the essence
of my heart's passion. Combining opposites or complimentary elements is a very
calming endeavor for me.
And this is how I came to where I am
today.
At the beginning of my addiction, I
was a strong, able, cunning player in the game of life. The shards of glass
that occasionally brushed my skin never even gave me a glimmer of what their
very presence was to do to me, myself and I. While creating, I would take the
occasional mishap as serendipitous to the piece on which I labored. Cleaning up
the happy accident only meant I had more to play with for another try at the
perfect juxtaposition of elements. And the blood that "happened"? I
never gave it a second thought. It was just a byproduct of my art and my
collection and my addiction.
But the glass changed me, to my very
soul. Let me be specific as to the beginning of the end for me.
I had taken a side trip to one of the
many so called "ghost towns" that litter the back roads of my area.
My original intention was to get to an urban center where I could go to some
thrift stores and look for glass but this particular road less traveled just
called to me as I drove down the frontage road to the expressway. After only a
few miles down this bumpy and dusty road, I was both thrilled and lulled by the
adventure and the scenery. Huge cottonwoods, gnarled with age and drought,
topped by wild yellow leaves waved a friendly hello from the red clay mesas as
I poked down the winding dirt road to the small town of Forgotten. The wind had
picked up and the tumbleweeds were playing a game of chicken with me as they
rambled across the road at frequent intervals. I was so engrossed in the moment
that when the road suddenly turned to the south and there in front of me was
the main street of a very dead little town, I was shocked back into reality.
Old clapboard structures intermingled
with tumbled down adobe buildings faced a main road that was only one and a
half car widths wide at the widest. The town was sitting in a bowl created by
the sandstone cliffs narrowing as it met the mountain stream. The stream which
must have been the life source for this village in times past ran between the
one row of buildings and the cliff face. Ancient trees grew on the bank and the
whole scene looked like something out of a western movie. So much so, I could
almost see buckboards lined up outside the general store along with horses and
mules tied to the hitching post. I almost rubbed my eyes to clear the imagining
from my head when I heard a man's voice talking to me.
"Howdy". The voice certainly
was a startling jolt.
I said hi, in a faked casual voice as
my heart raced and he seemed to be enjoying the fact he had just made me jump a
foot in the air.
"Are you lost? We don't get many
visitors out here."
I explained it was one of those follow
the end of your nose adventures. He seemed to understand just exactly what I
meant. I asked if there might be a restroom anywhere that I might use.
"Sure, come on down to the gas
station. We have water, a bathroom but no gas. Hope you don't need gas. No one
ever gets here for gas. Only the occasional brave heart like you or someone who
has lost their way back to the highway." He turned and I followed him to
the gas station.
After having used the facilities,
which were rustic to say the least, I asked if there might be anywhere to look
for shards of glass or pottery and explained that I was an artist and wanted to
include some history in my next piece. He was very interested in helping me and
offered to show me some bottles that he had found in and around the area
through the years. Most of the glass had come from the pharmacy that had been
down the street as well as some from what had been a pleasure house back in the
day. The saloon had offered up some shards from out back of the building. And
then he opened the door to the back room.
There in front of me was a dream.
Crates, boxes, barrels and shelves of glass of every color and description imaginable.
Whole bottles lined the shelves of what I could only guess were twenty, ceiling
to floor, drool inducing hoards of wonderfulness. The crates, boxes and barrels
were filled to the brim with broken shards. I had made it to heaven. I just
knew it. I could almost feel the excitement oozing out of every pore of my
being.
The man showed me his treasure trove
and I was so deeply engrossed in looking I must have zoned out because suddenly
I became acutely aware that he was just staring at me, staring at the glass. I
apologized for my rudeness and asked if he might be willing to sell me any of
his pieces.
"Oh hell no! Honey, I couldn't
take your money for junk like this. If you do see something that you'd like
just take it. It's yours."
You know that should have been music
to my ears but instead I was so conflicted. If I had my way, I would have
loaded up as much as my old car would hold but I didn't want to appear to be greedy
and horrible so I kept my obsession to a bare minimum. And believe me when I
say self restraint was more than difficult. I walked the shelving rows. Taking
down bottles that were of colors that I had never seen. I only took a few. And
one in particular just seemed to sing to me from a shelf that was right in
front of a window. It must have been the light coming through the soft pink
aged glass that made me want it so very badly. The bottle had no top but by its
shape, it most certainly had been a perfume bottle. It was just lovely, so
beguiling, so entrancing.
As the man walked me to my car,
carrying a crate filled with my haul, he thanked me for coming to Forgotten and
giving him an opportunity to visit with someone. I thanked him for his
generosity and I was on my way.
Little did I know that the good he had
done was the worst I would ever endure.
I became obsessed with the bottles and
shards I had gotten in Forgotten. It was all I thought about. I began working
in at a frenzied pace on one project after another. Each and every time I broke
the glass, I bled and cursed myself for my clumsiness. None of the pieces were
coming together. It seemed as if the harder I tried to put something together
the more of a mess I made and the more shards of my beloved glass I had in my
fingers. The more blood I spilled the more frantic I was to complete a piece.
I had used all the bottles except for
the perfume bottle. It was one of those things that most artist do, put back
the best for later. Only now it wasn't the best, but the only and I frantically
began to pull the pieces of cloth, wood, lace, buttons, paint, dye and the precious
pink bottle to my workbench for a dry placement of my design. I carefully
lifted the bottle to place it into the piece when it exploded in my hands.
Honestly, that is the last thing I
remember until I woke up in a hospital. I was under such heavy sedation, I
couldn't move and I kept asking the nurses what had happened but they didn't
answer me. They acted as if they couldn't hear me. They acted as if I was mute.
I drifted back into a deep sleep.
The next thing I remember is looking
into the face of the man at the gas station in Forgotten. He was rubbing a
cloth over my forehead and eyes. "Ya see honey, I couldn't have taken your
money for this old junk. But I knew you'd be coming back to us. You all always
do. Right?" And the others in the bottles all agreed.