Category Archives: Other

Texture is an integral part of our work.

When natural light fades, before artificial light takes over, there is a time when light surrounds and penetrates our flameworking. I think of it as photographers do the “golden hour,” the hour after sunrise and the hour before sunset when soft light and warm tones bring out the best in our work.

The texture also invites one to caress the work, seeking to discover a deeper understanding of our art.

I prefer to be influential rather than in control of my studio.

In my shop, everyone has the power of influence. There are six of us with quite a diversity of life experiences.

Taking advantage of this, I step into the background and observe. We all know we continually seek better and easier ways to achieve our goals. Having six minds working on this is better than one.

We understand the rules of creativity; negative thinking kills creativity, while a mind free of criticism enriches it. We don’t have a path but a concept to explore.

Each individual employing quick trial-and-error experiments, with results shared with everyone, gives us a much greater knowledge inventory in less time than a more formal approach.

Working in my studio is quite different from what most of us experienced earlier in life, with less tension and frustration.

Many years ago, Steve Jobs gave an interview describing what it was like to manage Apple.

It’s like one is the captain of a large ship; there is a massive hole in the bow, water is beginning to come in, and I’m doing everything I can to make it to shore before we sink.

Perfect description. I have felt that way many times.

So many details demand attention and take up so much of my day that creating art is almost in the catch-as-catch-can category.

My mind is constantly churning. I have pads of paper around me with which I jot down my thoughts randomly. I always have a piece of folded paper in my shirt pocket and a clip-on pen, so no matter where I am, I have no excuse for not writing something down before it vanishes.

I am sure it sounds like I’m complaining, and I am. But I have learned to live like this and convince myself that this is part of my art.

It is part of my art because it gives me control over my life, just like I want control over my art.

I would go nuts if I only thought about my art. To develop, I must have some left-brain activity that not only gives my right brain a break but also helps it function better—a partnership.

On the other hand, I’m a big believer in letting the mystery be.

As a young man, I felt inadequate in life.

I never did well in school. I felt like I was in this large holding pen until I was old enough to go out alone.

I had a sense of self. I viewed my life quite differently than Dick and Jane saw theirs and became resentful of how I was forced to live in their world.

I was thirty-two when I decided I needed a change. I moved to the country, arranged my life so I only had to work three to four months out of the year, and started my journey.

I worked at my craft and old farmhouse, rode my bike for miles on the surrounding back roads, and read a lot.

Being free to read what I wanted to change my life. I chose subjects that interested me: psychology, philosophy, psychoanalysis, sociology, and transcendentalism.

I began to narrow my focus to creativity—the simple act of trial and error, thinking and doing.

Realizing I had everything I had always needed inside me freed me to live the life I wanted. I became more aware of the world around me, and balanced with my newfound freedom of being inner-directed, I began to create myself.

I became more secure in my thoughts, not because I knew so much, but because I learned how to find the best solution with the information I had at the time through my creative thinking. Even if I was wrong, I could quickly reevaluate and move on.

If I had met Marcia and her five children in my thirties or early forties, I never would have considered myself ready for such an adventure. In my later forties, with my newfound freedom of thought, I felt prepared to begin the most extraordinary journey of my life.

Happy Valentine’s Day to everyone.

From day one, I knew I would not make much as an artist/craftsman and that there was a good chance I would not be able to make it my occupation.

I’ve been told I have a gift. If I do, it’s an overabundance of perseverance.

Cutting glass is essential in my art; one’s skill and productivity determine one’s livelihood.

Stained glass is an inconsistent material, not only in one sheet but also throughout the sheet, as the various colors, in varying amounts, take their place.

Running a small metal wheel around my pattern takes much skill and concentration. If you go outside the pattern, my window will extend past my intended borders, cutting the pattern short, and the opposite will happen.

Here is my collection of glass pliers, which I use to break the score line on inside and outside curves and extra-thick glass.

I suggest people new to cutting glass go slow and train their eyes by focusing on the little wheel and its relationship to the pattern. Then, pay close attention to every move you make, figuring out how each approach and forward motion increases or decreases the time it takes to complete each piece of glass.

Of course, this approach is the same for the other tasks needed to complete the window. The goal is to finish in a time that allows some of the budget to be there so I can continue to make this my living.

Almost always, art glass windows are photographed straight on.

As we create them, we try to remember to photograph them in their many stages of development. This practice came about because I believed that one day, I would tell my story with the aid of visuals.

This is one of my favorite photographs. When I was close to finishing this window, I captured it in perfect lighting at the end of the day.

Images like this engage my imagination more than a portrait approach, leading to more creative work in the future.

You may recall me saying that I am often halfway through a project before I cut the first piece of glass.

Well, this is one of the things I’m doing here, along with designing, getting approvals, making patterns, and finding glass and other materials we’ll need.

For this project, I’m selecting the background color for a night sky for a laylight, an indoor skylight, and a lighting fixture representing the moon passing overhead.

Sometimes, I think of other artists sitting in front of their work, thinking about how to proceed. Here, I’m thinking of Mark Rothko.

It doesn’t take me long to feel color alone. Color brings out strong emotions without symbols, creating the sensory experience I’m looking for.

One of the most interesting aspects of my life as an artist is my ability to create my reality.

I desire to do good, be helpful, contribute when appropriate, and be true to myself.

Finding direction and support is challenging in a world with many contradictions, and simple solutions are the norm for very complex problems.

And then I have to contend with my inner workings.

When I get dressed in the morning, I lay out what I will wear on my bed. Almost every time, I say to myself, I can not possibly be that big around. And yet, every day, I prove myself wrong.

So, every day, I try to move forward in this maze we call life.

I spent most of today working toward completing my project, depicting a fall evening scene by the Blue Ridge mountains as if standing on an overlook on the Parkway.

I worked into the fading light to understand how the glass represents the changing light: how the moon lightens the color of the leaves, and the sky darkens them.

I have always been fond of fall leaves, as they unattached themselves and find their way blowing in the wind. It is such a natural order of the universe, so free and natural.

The challenge is the moment is fleeting. We have no control over the timing. It is up to us to be present or not.

Happy New Year!

May the coming seasons bring you beauty and happiness.

I designed this front door transom for a home in Richmond, Virginia, thirty years ago. The homeowners didn’t pursue the idea, so it became a design learning experience.

A window like this can become quite expensive. I’m not expensive, but all of the processes involved add up. Even if I explain everything, most people need help understanding the time, skill, and value of such a piece. Even if one desires the piece, where is its place in a list of priorities? I understand.

Some accept the concept as a work of art, a symbol of expendable income, or their character and refinement, an investment. Others would like a piece of my work and have the financial resources. Understood.

This is the maze, the slalom of my life’s work.

As I press on to expand the possibilities of my art, I consider every opportunity carefully. I have limited space, time, and resources.

There are things I used to do that no longer fit my priorities.

There are small glass studies of how light and color interact that lay around waiting to find their place. There are sketchbooks, notes, and notes on scraps of paper I rescued before washing my clothes.

My job is to find a home for my ideas—a patron with insight, resources, and the desired understanding of putting forth the effort.

What holds all this together is that I find the whole journey fascinating.

It was 1972. After working on the kitchen table for several months, I rented an upstairs studio apartment in Carytown, a retail district in Richmond, Virginia. I was above the Daisy shoe store and across from the Byrd Theater and New York Deli.

If you walked down the opposite side of the street, you would see some of my lamps lit and hanging in the upstairs windows. On my side of the street, one could see my sign to help solve the mystery of what was happening upstairs.

I thought that if one was an artist/craftsman, one should make one’s own sign. It would not need to look like a commercially made one; it would just need to look more authentic.

Interestingly, I had only been in business for six months, and I was already promoting myself as the maker of the finest lamps and windows.

As I have gotten older, I’ve often noticed that those with the most elementary skills tend to exaggerate them, and those who are more seasoned don’t need to say much; their work says it all.

So now I don’t have a sign here in Bremo Bluff; my road number, 765, is on our mailbox post.

I created this window for the Fork Union Military Academy in Fork Union, Virginia, in 1990.

The beveled glass is 3/8 inch thick and beveled on our 1915 beveling machinery. The dark areas are emerald green blown glass.

The architecture is wood in a large Victorian farmhouse style.

Typically, most leaded beveled glass is 3/16″ or 1/4″ thick. However, you may occasionally find 3/8″ glass in some historical areas. I started using the thicker glass when I went through a period of working on large homes in and around Washington, DC. Many homes were built with unusually thick wood moldings, so I used the thicker glass to compliment the aesthetics.

It takes a lot of willpower to cut 3/8″ glass accurately enough to fit together in a 1/4″ wide channel. That’s within a tolerance of less than 1/16″, so all the pieces fit together, and the window turns out to be the correct size. Scoring with the tiny wheel at the end of the glass cutter around a paper pattern requires a lot of focus.

Then, grind and polish the angle with 1915 machinery—well, it takes a personality type I have spent much of my life trying to understand.
There are easier ways to make a living, with more money and many benefits.

While creating such a laborious, in my mind, work of art, I’m thinking about what a beautiful accent I’m building for a piece of architecture that will be there as long as the building is there.

It is a symbol of who I’ve chosen to be.

I designed this window for Tanden Friends School in 2001.

We sent our children to this small Charlottesville, Virginia, school modeled after the transcendentalist. There were only 220 children in the 5th through 12th grade. Small classes and intimate relationships proved vital to our children’s development. They thrived academically and emotionally, earned impressive scholarships, and now live self-directed, meaningful lives.

We knew we had found the perfect academic community for our children from the beginning. We were all so grateful that we decided to create something special to show our appreciation while they were students.

I started designing the window in early spring with the idea that we could all work together to build it during their summer vacation. At the time, the school mascot was a tree. Around three years later, the students voted to change it to a badger.

We all worked together: cutting the pattern, cutting glass, beveling the two-sided flash glass, foiling, soldering, and finally, the patina and cleaning.

I’m especially pleased with the energy the window portrays, much like the students and the ever-changing colors of the tree, which symbolize their constantly evolving selves.

But what I appreciate the most are the memories and actual art we all created together.

Glass cutting is something I take seriously.

Each type of glass cuts slightly differently, requiring varying pressures on the little wheel at the end of the cutter. The wheel has particular angles for various thicknesses and hardnesses of glass. Each cut requires dipping the little wheel into a small jar with light oil to give it a longer life.

Cutting and grinding glass has the feel of ice to me.

Many years ago, before grinders, I would nip away at inside curves with a pair of glass plyers I had rounded off for easy access. It was tedious and time-consuming. Now, we have water-fed diamond wheels to round out the shapes. The diamond ring also reduces breakage by removing the rough cut from nipping away with glass plyers.

Accuracy to the pattern is also crucial. Each piece fits into a lead channel. If I get a little off, I pay for it during assembly. We also have an upright, wet belt sander to smooth all the edges.

I can usually only cut glass for around four hours a day, and my ability has decreased as I’ve gotten older.

Living alone in the country for so many years, I rarely noticed how my hair looked. I was a bachelor artist, which meant I could push the limits, almost expected to.

I remember remarking to the lady who was cutting it back then that, at the rate I was going, I was going to end up spending close to a hundred dollars on my hair this year.

My mother would have turned over in her grave.

We heat our shop with wood.

Living out in the country, there is always plenty of firewood from fallen and dying trees, and of course, there are always people who sell cut and split wood ready to burn.

I have often found small gasoline engines frustrating to maintain, so this year, I switched to battery-powered chain saws. I’m quite happy with the switch. Battery-powered is quieter, more responsive, and not as messy.

I have a friend who has a very serious wood splitter. When he brings it over, he also brings his four home-schooled children. With the guys in the shop, we are able to split and stack enough wood for a year.

A wood stove is perfect for removing the chill from the air. As the winter gets colder, we move our work closer.

I created this transom for a home in Richmond, Virginia, in 1994.

All the bevel glass transoms I’ve seen in the older parts of Richmond are symmetrical.

Although this design can be considered symmetrical, I wanted to make it slightly different. I’m always looking for a way to break free of the past in a subtle but tasteful way so that my art blends with the furnishing and atmosphere of the area it will be included in.

This bevel glass transom was above an interior door. The exterior was a beautiful sunroom, so not only did it receive plenty of sunlight, but color reflected off the objects on the other side.

Like this one, I’ve left my mark in many subtle ways over my career.

When I started my journey in 1972, I was 23 years old.

One of my biggest challenges was pricing my work. I remember how nervous I would get when giving someone an estimate for a lamp, which is how I started my career.

I was always looking for work, even painting a few houses along the way to make ends meet. At that point, I was happy to just survive, with the possibility of being able to keep building my livelihood.

Most people had no problem with what I quoted them. However, some were quite agasp.

I took this quite personally at first. I would go through all the processes it would take to produce what they had in mind, explaining that I wasn’t building a lamp but creating one to their specifications, that this was the only one, and I would never make another like it.

I even heard one man tell his wife that if they bought the lamp, there would be no new washing machine this year, as a smile grew across his wife’s face.

Later in life, I realized that some were playing with me, and some just didn’t want to spend the money on what I offered.

Today, I’m comfortable with the negotiating process. I’m in a position to be more flexible in designing and choosing materials. I’m also more sensitive to helping people get what they want, which is essential when working with my patrons.

When I design a window like this, I first create the main feature. Much effort goes into the detailing, so I avoid leaning over into the middle of the window during its creation.

When designing vegetation, I like to make it look like it’s in its later stages of life. This sets the stage for building character into the design, making it more exciting and suggesting motion.

I used iridized glass for the background to give the effect of late evening.

The vines were solder sculptured over finishing nails for strength, so reinforcing bars are unnecessary. I beveled small pieces of crystal to give the window a little sparkle as if ice had collected in the crooks of some of the limbs.

I created this window for a home in Wintergreen, Virginia, around twenty-five years ago.

Every year, this time is an anniversary for me.

It marks my first deep appreciation for nature’s beauty.

I’m not sure where my thoughts were before, but I discovered the natural beauty around me in my late teens. I believe it developed from my first awareness of freedom of thought.

As my first major in college, I learned the biology of trees, from digging a five-foot hole in the forest floor to identifying species by their leaves and everything in between. Although this gave me an understanding of the science and was crucial to my overall appreciation, the forest’s aesthetics captured my imagination.

The individuality of each tree and its ever-changing crown symbolizes everything I believe in.

When I was 13, my mother took my brother, sister, and me to the Virginia State Fair.

I enjoyed seeing all the young animals, eating cotton candy and “elephant ears,” and riding on the rides that required me to be a certain height.

When I was 17, I drove my first car, an old Rambler, to the fair by myself, where I quickly began to discover areas my mother had managed to shield me from.

I was amazed and entertained by the variety of people I encountered. Some people liked each other, and some people seemed frazzled and distant. Some wore cowboy boots and some sandals. Some wore tight-fitting jeans; for some, their tight-fitting days were probably over. Even though I didn’t know anything about them, I thought that under different circumstances, some of us could become friends. There were others I avoided by moving to the opposite side of the corn dog booth. I was so disturbed by their actions that I accidentally ordered a snow cone.

There were “freaks” there, both human and animal. Some girls older than me seemed rather fond of feather boas and inviting people backstage. Agriculture students slid their hands up to their elbows into a cow’s lady parts and pulled a calf out by their front legs. There were also young adult farmers sleeping on blankets between their sheep.

Somewhere in my past, I remember hearing the word “melting pot.” On my way home, it occurred to me that not only was I beginning to understand the term, but that I had lived the experience.

Now, the reason I’m sharing this story with you is that, well, social media is like a melting pot. You can enjoy, learn, and share the diversity of what we have become, but you don’t have to reach into a cow’s lady parts and pull a calf out unless you want to.

Potatoes grow well in our zip code.

Living in the country, we can purchase a pickup truckload of aged manure for $5.00. Add in all the leaves, straw, grass, and leftover plant matter, and after 35 years, our garden is like potting soil.

Every year, we plant 3 to 4 rows of potatoes. We dig a hole, stuff a handful of straw in the bottom, place the cut portion of a potato with an “eye” in the hole, and cover it up.

Then, the magic begins. Moisture, air, nutrients, and sunlight stimulate the embryo. The mixture is slightly different every year and probably different for each plant. But the point is that all those slight variations are what give us variety in size, taste, texture, and freshness. And that’s why we grow our potatoes.

Now, I’m sharing this with you because, well, art is like a potato.

It’s a mystery – an idea germinating in that three-pound organ between our ears that is teaming with billions of neurons, transmitting signals to each other at 270 MPH. We barely know how it works and have virtually no control over it, but if one gives it a little time and a good environment, it almost always surprises us with something new.

This is not Norman Rockwell.

Most mornings, I peddle my stationary recumbent bike for about thirty minutes. Right above the controls is a place for my iPad, which helps the time pass quickly. I listen to a lot of music, but I also like documentaries about artists.

Many artists work alone, some in small groups, and some with their assistants. We’re a closely-knit group with much familiarity and support. In recent years, I have found that I need more diversity, not only from my peers but also from artists of the past.

There’s something special about understanding the history of one’s craft. I’m drawn to the lifestyle and the emotional connection.

Working in an old barn, heating with a wood stove, and rain on a tin roof connects me to a time long ago. It stimulates my values and obligation to protect and carry on the values of the past, which are the same as the ones I developed in myself during my lifetime.

How do I know this approach is right for me? It feels right.

I’m primarily relaxed, secure, and content in my life. My creative skills allow me to handle most of my challenges, and those that I can’t or only partially handle, I know that I gave my best effort.

When I first started cutting 1/4″ strips off of sheets of stained glass and working them over a flame, I became fascinated by how translucent the glass became. This was precisely what I had been looking for for years.

I immediately began cutting strips off of sheets of glass around the shop, experimenting with a wide range of colors. Some glass would change color, and some would almost go clear. I soon built a rack in my office to organize my experiments.

Sometimes, realizing the potential in a new idea is enough to “light the fire!”

My first project was this sample hanging, which is still in our kitchen. I gifted it to Marcia, an even more brilliant idea.

I was not a happy teenager.

Tired of having my life micro-managed, I began to withdraw. I wasn’t the type to cause trouble; I never saw it as a productive way to solve problems. I resigned that in a few years, I would be on my own and could live my life as I wanted.

As our children began to experience their teen years, I started to look for creative ways that would have made my teen years more pleasant and productive, hoping to pass them along to our children.

Taking them to work with me was a significant first step. It helped to reduce the parent-child relationship to a coworker one. We were equals, sharing each other’s knowledge for our common good.

We made suggestions through gestures, not words. By watching each other develop our skills, we both learned quickly and felt like teachers as well as learners.

It also made for the perfect time to talk about what they wanted. Did they want to live in Manhattan or a teepee in Montana? What did they look for in friendships, a mate, and a career? How important was money in their lives? How vital were children and spirality to them?

As they began to open up and realize they had some voice in their future, a calmness began to emerge, an inner acceptance of not only recognizing who they were but a positive feeling about themselves.

And this is the most important part: after choosing the most suitable time, tell them you are proud of them.

Sometimes, when building a window, I wonder if I should stop short of my original idea.

When I build a window like this one using my flame working, I always start with the back glass to attach my pieces to. I think of it as my canvas.

This allows me to move pieces around before using the UV adhesive to attach them. After I have attached several sections, I can lift the window to see its development.

This photograph was taken when I used the field around my shop to complete the window. It wouldn’t necessarily work in its final installation.

When I started my journey into being an artist/craftsman in 1972, I had a landline, library access, and a college degree in Sociology and forestry. My only financial resources were money from painting houses, which was how I paid for college. Oh, and I still had my old VW bus.

But most importantly, I had me. I have always been strong-willed, with what is today referred to as grit.

As my skills developed, I began to receive commissions from well-off people. This was quite a change from the environment I grew up in. Some saw a way to embellish their home with a unique object; some just liked me and the effort I put into my craft.

The contrast between visiting some of the homes I was invited to create a piece of my work for and my old farmhouse out in the country was quite dramatic. I remember becoming quite depressed as I would drive home in my old pickup, which, at times, I wasn’t sure it would make it.

It took me about five years to resolve my inner conflict. I attribute much of my change in attitude to realizing my freedom to be inner-directed, or as Abraham Maslow would say, to self-actualize.

When I was in college in Nacogdoches, Texas, I decided I wanted to live half of my life in the city and half in the country, half single and half married. This is the married county half.

I like people. Meeting someone new was exciting and usually led to new experiences and insight into the human experience. It gave me an education about humanity that I couldn’t find elsewhere.

It also helped me to learn more about myself. Watching people’s expressions and body language can often be more insightful than words. Observing how others organized and lived their lives helped broaden my outlook on life.

I was also protective of my time. I was on a mission to figure out what I wanted in life, and I thought it was unfair to others to enter into a serious relationship without knowing myself.

In my forties, I would go Contra dancing in Charlottesville on the weekends to socialize. Over the years, I made many wonderful friends and had many meaningful experiences.

One night, I was standing in line waiting for the dance to start, and I happened to glance down the line and saw the most adorable woman. I remember saying to myself, “Wayne, I think it’s all over,” we’ve been together ever since.

Have you ever been curious about people who rarely throw anything away and scabage for things that may be useful in the future? They usually have a plan or belief in their destiny.

I’m that way with my 1915 beveling equipment. It has five large wheels on cast iron bases and numerous attachments for special angles and effects. While most bevelers have adapted to the new diamond wheels, which are faster but give the glass a machine look, I stay true to the old wheels and grits and polishing compounds for a proper authentic look in my work.

This is my contribution to salvaging, maintaining, and making available a way of the past for the few who appreciate the marks of a craftsman.

John has a very similar approach to work and life. We incorporate many techniques that require a unique tool, jig, or gadget to help us make our work exceptional. Most of the time, we want to save money for something other than new equipment. This is where our collection of found objects comes into play.

Need an anvil? John shows up with a cut-off railroad rail. Need a steel table to weld on? John found one years ago and stored it in his garage.
An old oversized beach umbrella for a hot July day? A make-shift tool for removing oil filters? A cut-off ladder, hammers like I have never seen, and old pipe wrenches that actually work.

I’m especially fond of the miniature tool kit he carries on his belt. If you have a problem, John can fix it. The man is a walking mechanical engineer with tools.

Most beveling is on 3/16″ or 1/4″ glass with a 1/2″ bevel. I have beveled “miles and miles” this way for my projects and custom beveling for other studios.

I promised myself back in college that I would never go through life doing repetitive work, or, as we called it back then, being a “clog in the wheel.”

Being true to myself, I began beveling different thicknesses and colors of glass, pushing my skills with different angles. Soon, it seemed natural to work this way, creatively.

I arranged them in a carrying case 18″x 24″ and displayed each piece in a foam rubber cutout with black velvet as a background. It was an excellent addition to my presentations, portfolio of previous work, and drawings of how this new style of beveling could be used to create one-of-a-kind art glass windows.

One of the things I enjoy so much about my work is color.

Some glass artists say that glass is moody. It changes with the light throughout the day, influenced by the colors around it. It can also be both reflective and expressive.

This study combines both—a partial window in front of vegetation. The lines blurred into
abstraction, creating a kaleidoscope effect.

But more importantly, I find it interesting as I wrestle with the composition and its interplay of color, giving me a new visual experience.

When I moved to Bremo Bluff forty-two years ago, I promised to devote considerable time to Reading.

I have always liked the idea of carrying on a “conversation” with an author who otherwise I wouldn’t have the opportunity to because of unavailability or the difference in our life span.

I started by reading books cover to cover. I soon learned that most books contained several good ideas and evidence to support them but were time-consuming.

After acquiring a new book, I began exploring the index and table of contents to find information relevant to my interests. This approach worked rather well, moving me closer to efficiently educating myself.

Then, I began to look for a single idea—something new that would enrich my life. I needed not only the idea but also time to savor it, to roll it around in my mind to see how it would benefit me and how I could embellish it with my life experiences.

So, now I educate myself through snippets—ideas balanced with thought. I don’t have quite the volume as before, but I have more depth.

We created this window for an indoor space in a home in Bremo Bluff around 2022.

We took the bottom photograph outside the studio to document it in natural light, while the one above was in reflective light.

I’m especially pleased with the moon in the upper window. Its color works so well with the reflective light on the petals. The bottom moon is reminiscent of a ghost moon.

Extending the branches with copper wire that we soldered over to resemble natural branches allowed us to extend the blossoms for a three-dimensional effect.

I always recommend a dimmer switch or a small chandelier to add character and movement to a stained-glass window, sometimes giving a room a lamp effect.

One way I separate commercial products from works of art is to research old glass-working techniques. Glue chipping is one of my favorites.

First, we sandblast a piece of glass. Then, we build a “dam” by wrapping masking tape around the edges so that the warm glue won’t run off the edges when we lay it flat. We then heat horsehide glue in a double boiler and pour it over the level glass.

As the glue dries, it attaches itself to the rough sandblasted surface. The glue begins to shrink and curl upon further drying, peeling glass chips.

Under the most favorable conditions, glue chipping takes considerable time, typically two to four days. This prolonged duration, coupled with the need to repeat the process to achieve the desired quality, underscores the patience and dedication required for this technique.

This process is completed in plastic containers with lids, and the glue is bagged with glass chips. Animals love the taste of the glue.

An old business partner, Jerry Powers, and I created the lighting fixture for a patron around 1984.

Our roles were distinct yet equally important in this project. I beveled the 3/8-inch glass and assembled the fixture, while Jerry brought her artistic touch by designing and carving the glass. The carved design was ‘borrowed’ from an oriental rug beneath it.

The object is five-sided. I don’t recall why, but it never seemed quite right—visually, it looked lopsided. But another side of me thinks that’s what makes it interesting. The shape keeps drawing me in by my imitation.

If we didn’t have a portfolio, I’ve often thought people would think we sold firewood.

We live within five miles of each other. The primary commerce is Family Dollar and Dollar General, which duke it out daily. We are more accustomed to fire pits than restaurants, and our dress code would make casual Friday look like prom night.

Our commissions mostly come from the other end of the spectrum.

We’ve been together for over eight years, and during that time, I have noticed very little change in our personalities. With all of the beautiful commissions we’ve created together, we have remained as humble as when we started.

I attribute this in part to the fact that we make things. It is one thing to express an idea and another to bring it to fruition.

When we make an object, we have a realistic idea of our talents and shortcomings. The object symbolizes our character, a tangible expression of our caring nature. It is there for all to see, now and hopefully forever.

A sketch for an upcoming project in Bremo Bluff, Virginia.

This is how it begins: two people collaborate. One desires an object, and the other wishes to create it.

I find it interesting how diverse people work together to create something unique. I think of it as a highly developed right-brain person interacting with a highly developed left-brain person, both looking to fill the void in themselves.

If both people are emotionally mature, a sense of wonder takes over; enlightenment fuels the energy curiosity demands. As understanding grows, emotions replace words.

Sitting at the kitchen table on a Sunday evening, sketching an idea for a project, I remember that abstracting an idea into words loses much of its meaning.

Watching my sketch evolve, I realized expressing what was happening would be almost impossible.

Is it true that a picture is worth a thousand words, maybe two?

Why haven’t we been encouraged to express our ideas with the addition of simple sketches? Why aren’t directions expressed in flowcharts? Would this simple addition to our lives enrich our relationships?

Around thirty years ago, I created this beveled glass window for a couple who lived in the Museum district of Richmond, VA.

It was one of my new design styles at the time. Being across the street from the Virginia Museum’s parking lot, it received a lot of exposure.

The couple called me one day and told me they ordered a pizza last night. When they opened the door, the young man said, “You have a Wayne Cain window.”

I’m especially pleased with the glass selection, which provides both privacy and reflective quality in contrast to the wood’s craftsman-style design. It also allowed me to use different glass thicknesses and beveling techniques, engaging the person up close.

Working in a barn has its advantages.

They are mainly economic. I could almost live off my overhead when I lived in the city and had to rent space, plus all the associated costs.

I liked the lifestyle of colonial and European artisans. They worked out of their homes or worked in outbuildings. Saving time on my commute had enormous appeal to me.

What I appreciate the most is that I can leave the current world outside. As an old friend is fond of saying, “I don’t feel the eyes are on me.” Removing judgment is very important when taking risks
involved in creativity.

Over the years, I have tried marketing my work in many ways, including postcards, emails, cold calls, giving talks at wineries, and just about everything short of standing by the road holding a sign.

I have found that my best marketing plan is to invest my time and money into creating the best work I’m capable of.

Nothing will spread the word about me and my work better than an elated patron.

To get some idea of how many leaves we’ll need for our project, we’ll place the ones we’ve made onto our full-scale pattern.

This also gives us some idea of how the window will look in reflected light. Often, we will attach some of the leaves to a piece of the background glass to see how the colors look in daylight.

We also use these opportunities to
document and send it to our patron.

This is our flameworking section.

This menagerie comprises touches, kilns, glass warmers, inventory, hand tools, and a fire extinguisher.

Often, the glass will change color when heated. Our first challenge is to find a glass that will give us subtle color changes within its range. Then, we cut 1/4 to 1/2 inch strips and categorize them into large canning jars.

Standing in a workable with all the tools and equipment one needs and a wide range of colors is a satisfying way to spend time.

Making studies is an excellent way to learn and show clients what I can do.

I can get by now with only showing completed work, but in my earlier years, it was impossible to produce the volume of work needed to show finished pieces. I could create an excellent study in a day.

Whether selling through commissions, galleries, or shows, I always work partly within someone else’s aesthetics to sell my work. I do commission work because I work with only one or two people or a small group. Even after they have their input, I’m in charge of completing around 95% of the project. It’s my job to complete every line and coordinate all the colors. Choosing the volume of each color is a lot of what I do.

Having completed many studies over the years, working through commissions is easier. Most components were right before us, and finalizing the details took little time.

Along the way, I learned an important lesson. Some people buy art based on what they believe the artist’s potential is—like the way some people choose stocks. The past is important, but where is the artist going from here?

About half of my work over the years has been with churches, creating new windows, repairing old ones, and installing protective coverings.

New stained glass windows are a challenging way to make a living. We must meet with committees, collaborate on designs, create sketches, seek approval, find and select suitable materials, and present for final approval.

Designing is the most critical phase of the project. I’m working with a captive audience who will view them for generations, and it bears my name.

Restoration is almost always straightforward. You replace broken glass, solder broken joints, and clean up. For the most part, this is work that I consider boring and dirty.

The easiest method is to clean the stained glass first. The protective covering is precut and tempered, so all we have to do is install it, seal it with silicone, and leave a few places for small vents.

It has always concerned me that we make far more money installing protective coverings than on our new stained glass windows.

As I practice my “see the good” philosophy, I am grateful for the extra income, easy work, and the chance to breathe fresh air. I also feel good about helping preserve old windows and helping the church save on heating and cooling costs.

I’ve learned to see this as a nice balance. I can stay within my expertise, get exposure in my market, and feel good about my contribution to the art.

I moved from Richmond to Bremo Bluff, VA, in 1982.

My new home was a 1906 farmhouse on seven acres five miles from Fork Union, VA. I was thirty-two years old and living by myself, and I enjoyed my solitude at that point in my life.

Coming from the city after closing my company, I needed a break from the stress of employees, clients, bookkeeping, taxes, and the never-ending roller coaster of life as I thought it should be. I started with visions of developing a sizeable company. After building up to five employees, I realized Management wasn’t for me, and I missed the challenges of devoting my full attention to my art.

As a break, a reward to myself, I would travel into town and have breakfast at the Motor Lodge.

Inside, a half-circle counter with swivel stools wrapped halfway around the kitchen area. Beyond that, there was a large dining area with about twenty tables. The counter was split in half so servers could walk from the kitchen to the large dining area.

Most of us locals sat at the counter. It was somewhat separated. Farmers, truck drivers, and other people who worked with their hands were on one side, administrators, teachers, and retired folks on the other. I prided myself on being welcomed on both sides to the point that upon entering, I would scan the area to avoid offending anyone who looked like they desired my company.

I remember one morning, I was a little later than usual. There were several vacant seats, so I had the rare opportunity to enjoy breakfast alone. As I was near finish, Clyde, our branch bank manager, joined me. He said, “Wayne, you look a little down this morning.” ‘You know Clyde, I am, but I can’t figure out why.” ‘Well, I can tell you how to fix it. You need to go up on your prices. Two things will happen. One is that people will appreciate your work more, and you’ll feel better.” Well, Clyde, that sounds like one of those solutions where everyone wins!”

I immediately raised my prices by 30%, never missed a lick, and feel much better!

When I was in the third grade, I couldn’t read my teacher’s writing on the blackboard. I would walk up the side of the room to where the front desks were, but even then I could barely make out the words. I even asked the teacher if she would write larger. Her response was,
the letters were large enough.

Back then, my hair was auburn, the color of pine needles. Behind me was a little redheaded girl with glasses. We both had more than our share of freckles.

One day, just out of curiosity, I asked if I could look through her glasses. As soon as they touched my nose a new world opened up to me. Where there was once hazy green cloud like figures, now I saw individual leaves and grass. Trees, sidewalks and bricks came into focus, and I could read the words on the blackboard!

I told my mother about my experience that day, and about a week later I had my very own glasses.

Settling into my new found world, I began to think of the little redheaded girl behind me. I began to feel a fondness for her. A successfully shared experience, physical similarity and an abundance of gratitude on my part, began to open up a new inner world for me.

The leap out of the loneliness of not being seen, especially after trying to be, opened my eyes and heart to those who are struggling with the same fate. I now believe kindness is not only a wonderful gift but a way of life.

When I was around nine, I wanted to be a farmer.

My parents “gave” me a section of our suburban backyard to create my own little
sanctuary where I raised rabbits, pheasants, bantams and a few ducks.

I learned that the Dept. of Agriculture had phablets on just about every facet of farming. Most were free, a few in the five to ten cents range and one was twenty cents.

I had stacks, all around my bedroom. For several years I lived vicariously, pouring over the pages and absorbing the photographs.

I loved the freedom to follow my imagination. I thought of this time as preparing myself for adulthood, my own little journey.

I realized later in life that my idea of my life’s work would change. I do cherish what I learned during that time, carrying on with a large garden and a bunch of chickens.

But what I appreciate the most, are the skills I developed in educating myself.