Ephemeral
The neighborhood is quiet. A few thin clouds glow overhead with the day's last light, colors matched by the lights on some of the buildings. I walk the brick street, carrying my long sand tamper, watching people lock their doors and go home for the night.
Lights are still on in the shop. I open the door and two cats walk over the shaving-strewn floor to rub against my bare legs.
"Hi, guys. How are things?"
They give me the usual inscrutable feline look, but seem content to butt my shins with their hard heads as I scratch behind their ears. Two hands, two cats.
"I'll be there in a minute. Make yourself at home."
Good thing he said that. I couldn't move if I wanted to. On the walls are some new photos, including one of a spectacular three-piece sculpture. Each figure is life-size, and its base is little larger than its head. Must have been made with some terrific sand. Beside that are pinned some drawings, sketches of cones, a frustum and a partial ring. Notes are written on them, with lines and angles.
"I see you're finally getting serious about that tapered form."
"Yes." He walks in, wiping dust from him hands. As usual, he's well decorated with fragrant wood shavings.
"OK. What's going on?"
"Look at this." I show him the tamper. Specifically its working end, which is cracked to pieces.
"Oh, my. That's what comes with using parts not designed for the job they're performing."
"Yah, but it did pretty well. Over two years of sculpture. Of course, the bamboo one lasted much longer than that, but the Bigfoot does a better job."
"Well, you're in luck. I have spare parts here. Do you want to rebuild this or start over? I have a section of pipe the right length."
We walk back into the workshop. I've never been back here before; it's smaller than I expected, with simpler tools.
"It really doesn't take much to make things. The drill press is a big help, however."
"Let's make a new one. I'm tired of having that coupling interfere with my grip, and I've never taken it apart."
"Good enough. Now, where did I put those parts?" He starts opening drawers and looking in cubbyholes. "They have to be here somewhere. All together. I learned that the drains vary in thickness, so I chose one that was nice and heavy." He roots around some more. I look around, at scraps of wood and various tools lying haphazardly around the tiny shop. The floor is a combination of sand and shavings.
"Ah. Here's the glue. We're getting close." Clattering, thuds, rustling as he moves things around. "This is what you get for stockpiling parts: they get buried under more recent projects." He opens more drawers. "Ah! Here we are!" He pulls out a drawer, and inside are the necessary drain, couplings and adapter.
"Now, look at how this old grate is dished in. How might we support that better?"
"How about using both grates? Mount the old over the new?"
"In line, or crossways?"
"Crossways, I think. Better support perhaps, and also gets the screws away from each other."
"Good enough. There's no hole below though, so I'll have to drill and tap the new grate for the screws."
"I think the cracks in the old one started when I had to rebuild it. The old screws started to back out, so I replaced them with bigger ones, but I didn't drill the holes big enough."
"You have a bigger problem than that. Look at this." He picks up the old tamper and shows me how the whole periphery of the drain has cracked away from the center. "Major design fault here. You'd think this was designed to be a drain, not a tamper."
He drills the new grate, then taps the holes. More rooting yields some stainless steel flathead machine screws; these are cut to length and used to attach the grates to each other. "Oh, we need a spacer." He finds some washers. "That'll do it. Now we need to attach this assembly to the plastic frame. Without making the same mistake." He drills out the screw holes and then attaches the grate. A small "Tick!" sound indicates that the hole wasn't big enough. "Damn. Hog 'em out some more."
"Wait a minute. How about bolts?" I watch as he dives into cabinet. "Here we are. Bigger than I wanted, but there are nuts to match over here. This way we don't depend upon the plastic for integrity." He drills out the screw holes big enough to pass the long bolt all the way through. A washer and nut go on the end, but the nut doesn't cooperate. "What's wrong here? Threads? Oh, yes, I got these bolts for skateboards. They're 10-24, and the nut is 10-32. Wait! I should have nylock nuts for this. Perfect!" He rushes off and returns in a minute with a small bag.
"Here we are." The grate needs more countersinking. Then he runs the bolts through that and the plastic frame, adding washers and nuts. "This'll work great." Then he attaches the old grate over the new with the cut-off screws into the tapped holes. "Solid. But, you know, we should have bolted the whole thing instead of this tapping fol-de-rol. And we're still going to have that problem of the grate being supported only by the periphery. You need this when?"
"Tomorrow."
"All right. We'll build a more advanced version later. This will get you through." With a file he rounds off the edges of the new grate and knocks any other sharp points.
"Ready for glueing. Bring me that can, would you? And tear off a piece of that paper." The cats have been watching all of this, but as soon as he unscrews the top of the glue can they head for high places.
"Yah. I've never been known for neatness in glueing. Ready?"
"Yes."
"OK. Hold the pipe." He swipes some glue around the end, and then more on the inside of the adapter piece. "Now. Push it in there. It should go easily." I do so, to where it stops. "Good. Now, hold onto that." He puts glue on the outside of the adapter and the inside of the drain. I push them together to the stop.
"Done! The next one will be quicker and simpler. Let me know if it really is doubly great."
"I will. Thanks for your help." We shake hands.
A low silver moon throws long shadows from the buildings. A few people are still walking about, and music comes from somewhere. New tamper over my shoulder I walk on home. Its first use will be for a special sculpture.
"Larry, Bob Jeffords passed away this week, losing a battle with cancer. As you may remember, Bob was a great fan of your sculptures, helped you with a few and a big fan of Venice beach (and resident). There will be a beach memorial this Sunday the 24th north of the pier at the blowhole. I was thinking it would be fantastic to have one of your sculptures at that spot for the service."
Build number: 02M-9 (lifetime start #256); 3 units integrated within base, earthworks and borrow pit
Title: "Friends, Fare You Well!"
Date: November 24
Location: Venice Breakwater, on the flat
Start: 1000, construction time 5.5 hours
Unit A: 32 inches tall, 19 inches diameter, unfiltered native sand (Short Form)
Unit B: 31 inches tall, 19 inches diameter, unfiltered native sand (Short Form)
Unit C: 30 inches tall, 19 inches diameter, unfiltered native sand (Short Form)
Plan: Unit A on elongated 12 inch tall riser with spurs between borrow pits. Unit B on lower pad northeast of A, within curving spurs. Unit C on bottom of west borrow pit. Plot approximately 10 feet by 10 feet.
Helpers: none
Digital Images: 40, with Canon Powershot G2 (includes 3 of Larry's 02-K in process)
Photo 35mm: none
Photo 6X7: none
Photo volunteer: none
Video motion: none (camcorder left at home deliberately)
Video still: none
Video volunteer: none
New Equipment: Replacement Bigfoot Tamper, double-grate version
Now the winter winds blow cold
Upon a fair and gentle soul
And she feels as if her time is passin' easy.
--Dan Fogelberg, "Go Down Easy"
1. Wrestling
At the ends of the tide's movement periods are the "stands," when the rate of change is near zero. At the high stand how far the waves will go is dictated by how much energy they carry and what previous waves did. A big wave after a small one goes farther because the bigger one has less backwash resisting its motion. If the tide is at the stand and you have your back to the ocean, start worrying when things get quiet.
I was at the Breakwater Saturday night looking things over. The surf was quiet. This has changed by Sunday morning; as I walk down the gentle hill on Rose Avenue I can see boomers rising to hammer the beach. The tide is approaching its morning high.
On days like this I used to come down the day before and haul sand from the low-tide line to some point above the morning high but there have been problems with this technique recently. I've decided to simplify the process and use what sand is available at the high-tide line.
This involves choosing where the high-tide line is. That booming surf changes everything: more power, more variability. The surfers love it, though. Coincidentally, Larry Dudock is here too; his buckets have been stolen overnight from his sand cache. I stand out on the flat watching the water patterns. Of course, this does little good. Somehow King Neptune likes to guard his sand as if it were the Crown Jewels, and as soon as I start to dig the whole site is repeatedly inundated. This takes real brains: building things out of sand in the middle of running water. Some of the grains go back and forth so many times they have a first-name relationship with my shovel.
Finally the tide begins to turn. Then it gets quiet, and after that a huge wave washes in, taking six inches off the side of my base. Wait for it. Yah, here comes its follower; there are always two. After that I riprap the pile with seaweed, which of course causes Neptune to laugh and give up. No more big waves hit, just a few love pats just when they're not needed. Well after the tide has turned, water is still getting into the borrow pit where, on a whim, I decided to put a third sculpture.
This is something I'd been thinking about. A sculpture in a hole? Why? Vertical variation, a full-size sculpture with its lower third hidden. I just hope the beach drains soon enough for me to carve that piece; time is rushing. I have to be finished by 1600.
It's a nice assignment, but it's still an assignment. Finish it on time and make sure it's still standing at the end of the day. Here I'm dealing with coarse sand that really doesn't want to stand up like this, and it dries out rapidly. The benefit of a multi-part sculpture is that the components can be simpler and then combine in complex ways, with light and shadow and space providing the links.
At least that's the way I hope it will work out. Assignments. I'm worried. I've been thinking about this sculpture ever since I got the Email. Ideas flit through my mind to quickly for any to perch and present themselves for consideration. What will I do? This thing has to be good. Command performance. What if I bomb?
2. Remember
"You are not an ox; YOU ARE AN ARTIST, regardless of limitations you work under."
--Bob Jeffords, Email of 2002 July 14 [emphasis in original]
The only certainty is that there is no longer any time for worrying. I give Units A and B--C is still sitting in water--a last spraying and pick up the #1 Loop Tool. When in doubt, use the Loop Tool because it will do almost anything.
Consider the sculpture as a T plan. Units A and B make up the crossbar, with C in its hole holding down the bottom of the T. I link A and B with a long continuous curve from A's top to the base of B. Further work makes this into a gently concave bowl on whose edge B rises in a mirrored concave.
The sculpture is coming from an idea I've been thinking about for a few months: two inward-leaning sculptures, with a symmetric sculpture in the middle that matches the others. I don't much care for symmetry, preferring balance, so the idea was shelved. Here it is, however, in a format that will work. Burying the middle sculpture and moving it outward removes the symmetry while preserving balance, and makes the matching curves less obvious. People will have to work at viewing this one.
Sand sculpture is strange. Packing sand is an ox's work and there's no substitute for this. Do it right, the sculpture at least has a chance of holding up. Make a mistake and the dream comes down, but if there's no dream the ox might as well stay home. Now the ox's strength and persistence must give way to a hummingbird's touch directly linking eye and hand. What guides the hand? What makes this worthwhile? Make all the fancy words you want. It's actually simple. Feeling. Sand allows expression that can't be done any other way. External feeling of sand under fingertips, internal feelings driving the process. Quit thinking. Carve.
Unit A looks rather slabby. I cut a long narrow slot--narrow because the sand is weak--from top to bottom and then start two holes, leaving a thick septum between to help hold it together. On the sunlit side I cut another slot, shaping its edges carefully, and drill through to the other openings. It's beginning to flow.
At the top I cut two small circular holes. These relieve the unbroken surface. They're echoed in a larger circular hole I cut into the side of Unit B, where it will be visible from some angles. The other holes in A are also echoed in B, but with changes. B is shorter, with a broad top larger than its base. The key is balance and I trim the piece to keep it from looking too topheavy or clumsy.
Time is pressing. Finally all the water is gone from Unit C's base; I have to use the shovel to dig the form out of the sand that washed in on King Neptune's little tokens of appreciation. The column holds.
This one is to be simple: two leaves leaning against each other. The engineering is easy, which is good because the base of this piece is still very wet and soft. It tapers in two tense curves, with a large space between.
Rudy and his wife stop by, but they don't stay long. They can tell I'm not really with them. The flute player I met a few days ago has the same experience; I'd like to chat, but I just have to keep working. This has made me more irritable than usual; I give only short answers to passersby and keep my head down. There's one thing only: to make a sculpture.
Unit C is too simple. It's lost in its hole. A series of small holes in the south, sunlit, side helps the sculpture stand out, and I continue the pattern into the inside in corrugations that come all the way to the sunlit edge of the south leaf. It seems overdone but it's too late to change. This piece is short; perhaps the Baroque edge will help it to compete with its larger companions.
Access is difficult. I have to step carefully and make sure I know where my arms are when I turn, or a sculpture will go flying. Watch those elbows.
At this time of year the day looks like permanent afternoon. My perceptions are still carried over from summer and the light fools me into rushing even more. Sunset is imminent! Hurry! Get this thing cleaned up! I look over and see Larry sitting down, eating something. What's he think this is? A picnic? Maybe my thought is born of envy.
A man shows up with some chairs. It's not just the chairs that tell me he's here for the memorial. Something about him is different, doesn't fit the beach model. Purpose? Forget it. Finish the sculpture. Brush carefully, rub out the carving marks, brush again. Use the little brush to push the crumbs out of the small holes. Rub some grooves down from the holes in Unit C to give the broad curving side more texture; this has turned into a subtly complex sculpture.
Carve the base and borrow pit sides. Shape these broad surfaces into uniting curves using waste sand; Rich and Bob aren't here to haul it away. From the sculpture's center I work outward, brushing away hand and footprints, randomizing the loose sand so the smooth sculptures will stand out.
Well, that's it. The best I have time to do. Somehow it came together, ox and artist collaborating again and getting it done on time. I look at the sun and guess it to be about 1515; a passerby tells me it's a good guess, but actually 1500. The pressure suddenly leaves. Done. And the more I look at the sculpture, the more I like it. Even that Baroque edge on Unit C works; it's just irritating enough to be noticed, but not unattractive, and it helps draw attention to the small piece.
Making a sculpture like this is a process nearly invisible. I have no idea what the whole piece looks like until it's finished and there's time to walk around; I can only trust the hands and experience. Consideration is something reserved for longer days, or simpler sculptures.
I do final site clean-up and trash removal, and then get my camera. The "canonical" view requires lying on my stomach so that the top part of Unit C pokes up between A and B, but there are lots of other good angles in late afternoon light that, while it doesn't have the laser directness of a few days ago, hasn't gone soft with vapor yet.
3. Cold Peace
"His was a gentle passing. There was no pain. You could feel the love filling the room. Truly, he was surrounded by it."
--Bj Cotton-Jeffords, Email of 2002 November 20
Youth spends its time trying to look like everyone else without being obvious about it. Bob's friends are individuals with a wide distribution of ages. They greet each other with hugs and handshakes, and ever more of them join the milling group on the cooling isthmus. The light softly illuminates animated faces, expressions and eyes.
I talk for a few minutes with Brad, the fellow who invited me to this event. As ever more people gather I begin to feel as if I'm in entirely the wrong place. I fit in here about as well as the janitor at the president's meeting. Roles come from within and I can't shake this. I'm hired help, producer of the backdrop.
More people come, and yet more. There must be over 100 gathered by the time a few walk through the group distributing the order of service. I look this over and find there will be a "talking stick" period, where the stick passes in turn to people who want to speak.
The memorial service starts with Cat Stevens' "Morning Has Broken." Our voices have to compete with the surf that is still booming against the rocks under the sun that's not long from setting. It provides little warmth against the damp steady breeze pushing sailboats homeward.
I remember Mary's father passing. Friends and family gathered in a church and told their favorite stories, a final celebration of a long life. A man who's obviously a preacher speaks for a few minutes, and then Bj gets up to explain the talking stick. In this case, it's an antelope antler, and she asks for volunteers. No one raises a hand. All right, the janitor will speak. I raise my hand and she hands the stick to me.
"My name is Larry Nelson. I met Bob here earlier this year when I was making a sculpture; after that he came out several times to help. He'd show up and say "OK, Larry, what do you want me to do?" I speak loudly to get past the surf. "One day he was here while I was trying to finish a sculpture, a three-part multiple like this one, before the tide came in. I asked him and my friend Rich to haul away the waste sand. We all worked like demons to get finished, and we did it. We all had fun and it was a very good day." I look around, find a raised hand and pass the talking stick on. The ice has been broken.
Many people speak. Many of them I can't hear; they speak softly, or are facing the wrong way. Everyone listens as best they can. One man's voice breaks up under tears. Another reads between wiping his eyes.
"I worked with Bob on 'Logan's Run.' He was the production manager, and hired me. We had a meeting. I asked him what he wanted me to do.
'I want you to be production manager.'
'But, Bob, you're the production manager!'
'I know. My last act is to hire you. Your first act is to fire me. I'm tired of office work.'
So, he hired me and I fired him. That's how I became production manager on 'Logan's Run.'"
"I also worked on 'Logan's Run.' I went to Bob one day on the set and asked him how to get the stage crew to work with me. He said 'Treat them with respect. Meet them, listen to them, learn from them. They're important.' I've remembered that ever since."
More people. More stories. More love than I've seen in a long time. A very long time. It's like being dumped into a foreign country; I recognize what's going on but it's not my land.
The sun has set. Soft light suffuses the sky with indescribably subtle colors over the sea's steel glare. For some reason this feels to me like a farewell statement from Bob. A few more people speak, and then the preacher leads more singing. He turns out to be the current pastor of Bob's church, and the former pastor is also there. The service ends in silence on sand whose color is beginning to match the sky's, and the group starts to break up.
I'm shivering. No time to eat, not prepared for the post-sunset cool. Movement should help. I gather my equipment and make sure everything is strapped onto the cart. I'd like to go to the reception at the church, but what would I do with all this equipment? Besides, I wouldn't belong. What would I say to any of these people?
I turn away and walk north under through the glowing air. Half a mile of walking as briskly as my tired body can stops the shivering but the loneliness goes on. Ah, forget it. Circles overlap and then change. Walk. See what comes next.
4. Tools
"I intended to send you an email the other day to say how much I enjoyed the time working with you and the chat. And that I'd be delighted to do it again."
--Bob Jeffords, Email of 2002 July 14
Well, I may still look over my shoulder to see if Bob is coming, but it won't happen. He was one of the few I always looked forward to seeing walking along the beach. Nothing lasts forever.
"How'd it work out?" His cats observe me from their warm cabinet-top perches.
"Just fine. It's heavier. Hits plenty hard, but didn't do any better job of packing than the old one."
"OK. We can go back to the lighter-weight single grate. I think I've figured out a couple of ways to keep it from breaking up, too. What do you think about this?" He draws a picture.
"That should work, if we can get the pipe to go just that far. How about some sort of reinforcing ring here?"
"That would work, but how're you gonna make that ring? You think this is a machine shop?" He smiles.
"What, no CNC machine?"
"I just got electricity last week. Give me a break." We laugh. Life goes on, with all of its developments.
Started November 24
Completed November 25
Edited and amended November 26
Updated 2017-12-26 with new image edits to replace Photobucket, with realization that images of multiples need to be bigger.
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