You may have wondered what the inner workings of a 1915 Henry Lang beveling machine look like. Well, ponder no more.
This is the machine we rough-grind our bevels with. With a bit of 80 -100 aluminum grit and a lot of focused muscle, we stand there for hours, changing the angle on the edge of the clear glass from 90 degrees to around 20.
Water acts as a lubricant, so we wear rubber boots and aprons and always use warm water, hoping to postpone the onset of arthritis.
As you can see, the parts are simple and sturdy, like those of other machines built over a hundred years ago. I enjoy working with well-made machines and tools. They balance the thought and care we put into 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.
Winter scene of a wisteria vine in the impressionist style.
I’m fond of whiplash designs, mainly when they depict nature in a mature, perhaps near-death state. Add the element of strong winds through the use of reamy mouth-blown glass from Germany, and one can begin to feel the intention of this window back to when it was an idea, working its way through a series of drawings.
Yesterday, we installed this piece in a barn door high on a hill above the James River. In a place known for high winds, it was the perfect blending of art and nature.
When I read, I struggle to remember what I have read.
I’m aware that much of this comes from the confusion between my left and right brain, which results from being forced to use my right hand instead of my left. This switching also affects my ability to concentrate and focus and, to a large extent, my memory.
I’ve learned to adapt. Not only have I learned to adapt, but there are times when I wonder if I’m not better off.
Not being able to comprehend as quickly as others, I learned not so much from the words of others but how to emulate them. We all know actions speak louder than words and how much of an idea’s meaning is lost when abstracted into words.
Looking back over my life, I only recall a few meaningful insights expressed in words and conversations. But I remember the actions and movements of others, like my father, mother, coaches, teachers, and the people I worked for as a young man.
As an artist, I’ve learned the value of being around other artists, especially in their studios. Environments that would take volumes to try and describe what is going on when only a few glances around the room saturate my mind with information.
I’ve met some interesting people, often because of the projects I’ve worked on over the years.
This is Josh Greenwood, blacksmith extraordinaire. Among many other accomplishments, he built gates for the National Cathedral, taught blacksmithing courses around the country, developed two hydropower plants, and spoke four languages.
I met Josh when we were both around thirty and creating art for the new Tobacco Company Club.
I have always found it interesting how people connect.
For Josh and I, the whole spectrum of persona, work, and the ability to communicate instantly drew us into a friendship. I also admired his well-controlled intensity. He had such a mind-body connection where his muscles and mind were so developed from his journey in life that he had developed as only he himself could have.
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.
This was one of my first serious attempts at creating three-dimensional windows.
Starting with blown clear glass from Germany to create the effect of wind around the branches, I then began to shape and attach wire branches to enhance the movement’s impact.
Attaching our flamed worked petals in the same flowing manner, I begin to build the most life-like portrait of nature I’m capable of.
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.
Seven years ago, a university professor visited me with his album cover of the Beach Boys’ Wild Honey and asked me to create a transom window for his listening room using the design on the cover as inspiration.
Our relationship started as usual: introductions, a tour of my studio, and then finding comfortable seating in my office to share our thoughts about his project.
I’m fortunate that interesting people find me to work with. I owe this to the internet, where one can tell one’s story, and people from all over can choose who they want to work with. By the time they contact me, our relationship is well underway.
As we began understanding how to proceed with his project, our conversation evolved into sharing other interesting parts of our lives.
I found the life of an English professor engaging, especially how he had time to study and share his thoughts with his students.
I shared with him how I was the kid in the back of the class who was always asleep or daydreaming.
“Ah, preserving your creativity.”
It’s so rare that I find someone who understands those of us who are so strongly inner-directed, especially someone who is so ingrained in the system. Even with our overlapping approaches to life, there are similarities, just different reward systems.
It’s disheartening when adaptability and conformity are highly regarded, and original thoughts are suspect. This affects our emotional lives and self-esteem to the point that some are unsure of who they are.
I began to teach myself how to draw in my mid-thirties.
A book published in 1989, Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain, by Betty Edwards, was a great inspiration.
Betty had a warmth about her that she so beautifully portrayed in her writing. She described techniques with her drawings and presented quotes from other artists in such an organized way that I could open her book up almost anywhere and learn.
My favorite part was when she talked about how helpful it is if one can feel the object, and who could feel it better than the maker?
With a drawing pad and a handful of #2s, I spent twenty minutes each day sketching bevels and bevel glass windows. I dated the page after every day.
After about four weeks, I could translate my ideas onto paper, the final skill I needed to feel comfortable calling myself an artist/craftsman.
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.
I created this center section for a beveled glass window in a home in Richmond, Virginia, around forty years ago.
I look back on this accomplishment and feel a sense of pride, partly because it was well-managed and still serves me well as an example of what I was capable of back then.
I remember the emotional struggle as I worked through the challenges of creating and building such a piece. Starting with a piece of paper and a couple of number 2s, working and reworking ideas is challenging, especially when the outcome is up to me, with no one else offering guidance and support.
Then, I have to build the window, make patterns, cut glass, assemble, putty, and clean, knowing it’s entirely up to me. I’m responsible for the craftsmanship and finishing in time to cover my cost and hopefully a little extra.
We’re all aware of the power of positive thinking, but how do I sustain it throughout my project?
I do so by constantly monitoring my emotions. To maintain an upbeat frame of mind, I think about what a beautiful object I’m creating, one that will be an accent piece in architecture, I call then my jewels.
When I begin to feel sorry for myself for working so hard, especially when there are so many other things I would rather be doing, I know it’s time for self-management, and I am in charge of making the effort to do so.
From day one, I knew I wanted the freedom to manage myself and to find a balance between work and life’s other joys. I consider this one of my most significant accomplishments.
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.
I am so overwhelmed with projects that I have been considering how to become more efficient.
With so much going on, I move around throughout the day, from my drawing table to the area where I study glass samples, visiting each table where there are ongoing projects, sharing ideas with the artisans who assist me, and keeping records and communicating.
Moving around benefits me the most. If unsure how to proceed, I’ll study the information before me, believing it will pass into my subconscious.
As I move around throughout the day, studying how to move this mass of work forward, I notice that answers begin to appear. They are not necessarily in the order of what’s in front of me, but the big puzzle is starting to fall into place.
I attribute the billions of neurons in my mind, traveling at 270 mph, that love solving problems and hate being bored, in tandem with my conscience, as the framework of my creativity.
When I consider the complexity of my other organs and how my body is so syncretized, this image of my mind makes perfect sense.
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.
There have been times when I thought our sculptured soldering looked dull and uninteresting.
I’ve tried different patinas, like the one that turns solder green, and placed some on the North side to resemble moss. That works in some cases, but for the most part, I just wasn’t satisfied.
Brushing Shellac or Polyurethane on solder worked well for some projects as it picked up the reflective light, which balanced well with the stained glass surfaces.
I created this skylight around 2005 for a three-story home in Richmond, Virginia. It was a beautiful home in the Fan District built around 1890.
This skylight provided light for the three-story staircase with exceptional woodwork, raised paneling, spindles, handrails, and oak floorboards on the steps—large rooms with commanding ceiling fixtures hanging from high ceilings surrounded by beautiful double-hung windows.
The patina and craftsman’s markings from hand-held tools make me wonder what my life would have been like if I had lived during the construction of this magnificent home.
Skylights like this are subject to shadows as the sun moves across the sky. The light is funneled through the opening above it, giving the window the feeling of rotation.
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.
Almost every evening, as I open the door to leave my shop, I turn around and take one last look.
I am overcome by a wave of satisfaction almost every time. Here, I create not only my art but also my own work culture. As a young man, I dreamed of such a place.
Looking back forty-two years after working ten years in my studio in downtown Richmond, Virginia, I can fully appreciate the courage it took to move sixty miles up the James River to Bremo Bluff, start renovating a 1906 farmhouse and jacking up an old buggy barn for my studio.
I was thirty-two years old, burned out from taking the traditional road to success and looking for a new start that evolved from deep inside me.
In 2013, my son Daniel and I created two rose windows for St. Thomas Aquinas Priory in Charlottesville, Virginia.
The Dominican Friars at the Priory pray in the chapel beneath these two windows five times daily. Each symbol instructs the faithful and inspires prayer, which hearkens back to the purpose of stained glass in ancient times.
Each painted piece was fired multiple times and painted using antique processes and techniques. The Dominicans are an old order, and we were pleased to create what they wanted using traditional materials and methods.
At twenty-nine years old, I am most proud of how Daniel took the lead role in this project—meeting with the decision-makers, designing the project, laying out the full-scale layout, choosing the colors, and doing all the painting.
All I had to do was take on the role of his helper.
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.
Some vast projects have occurred over the years. This is Saint Peter Baptist Church in Glen Allen, Virginia. We completed it around twenty years ago.
I’m often asked if we have any large projects we’re working on. This was our most extensive one, completing most of the work outside my shop.
Projects like the twenty windows we designed and built for Saint Peter are very demanding. Starting with a committee, we tackle everything from subject matter to color. Politics plays a slightly different role for each job of this size. Not knowing the specifics, I’ve learned to sit quietly and listen.
It is essential that everyone who has something to say be heard. People understand they may not get their way, but not being listened to is unforgivable.
My favorite story from this project was when one of the church leaders informed everyone that a performance contract between the church and me would be necessary because of the amount of money changing hands.
I assured them my performance was guaranteed as a married man with five children. I knew this wouldn’t reduce the premium by one cent, but the goodwill it generated was priceless.
I spend a lot of time studying my projects to reduce the possibility that they will go in the wrong direction once we start building.
Of course, color and line are primary considerations. It is interesting how important it is to balance the volume of colors through the glass sizes so the window will feel right.
I also have to consider halation, how strong light can overwhelm specific colors, the colors around them, and sometimes even the lead lines.
When selecting glass from my suppliers, I favor the more translucent areas in a sheet of glass, often knowing that I will only use a small portion of the sheet. I store the balance, hoping a place will be found for it later in another project.
I always use natural light when selecting and a light table when comparing how the colors look with artificial light.
After choosing a paper pattern, I spray the back with a light adhesive, select the area I want to incorporate into my window and adhere it to the glass.
I spend considerable time thinking about life, especially the changes that have occurred during my lifetime.
When we couldn’t use calculators in statistics class, NASA was the only one with computers, and I relied so heavily on my paperback Webster Dictionary.
I remember how others laid out our lives with medals, ribbons, and negative feedback, creating a well-defined course. For some, this provided security, comfort, and certainty.
I was miserable.
I love this electronic age. I feel connected to friends, to the rest of the world, to what people are doing with their lives, to innovations and social changes, and to everything that is always available through this portable gadget I carry around in my pocket.
I’m well aware some people are trying to destroy this creation, but isn’t a part of life, trying to figure out what is right and wrong?
But what I appreciate the most about this stage of our evolution is that I am now in charge of my development, with so many resources at my fingertips.
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.
As a young man, I was so busy trying to meet others’ demands that my mind was consumed by clearing hurdles as fast as I could. At this age, I understand why the blinders were so routinely attached.
I’m past the stage where I resent what I believe was stolen from me, leaving me with a clear head to enjoy the pleasures of the world around me.
I now drive slower, walk slower, eat slower, and sit longer as I absorb the beauty in our world that captures my imagination. Every day enriches my soul, and I know that I am living the human experience, true to myself.
Around twenty years ago, I experimented with combining glass and metal motifs.
This was a design for a powder room entrance. Starting with a garden gate design, I used zinc to represent the ironwork and stained glass for the background. Then, I cut the leaves and extensions for the tops out of flat copper, melted solder over both sides and shaped them with a hammer and anvil.
My first thought about the hanging vines and leaves was to carve them into the glass and paint the etched areas. However, I revised my idea and used a traditional stained glass window approach.
My initial idea was to use small glass tiles around the transom and upper part of the door.
As with many projects in the beginning stages, ideas change and evolve.
This collaboration was for a home near Charlottesville, Virginia, around twenty years ago.
I created panels representing the four seasons, one on each side, for a pool table lamp. I can’t say I’m fond of artificial lighting, but it works here, and of course, I had no choice.
The lamp gave the room a southing feeling, a break from the more formal setting, especially as one leaned across the table to take a shot.
This is one of my current projects. It will be installed in my patron’s bedroom, where he can enjoy the beauty of the evening sky regardless of the weather.
The concept is as if one is standing on one of the overlooks on Skyline Drive overlooking the Blue Ridge Mountains.
This is the background.
Now, I’m starting on the foreground, which will be dimensional. With solder-covered copper wire representing branches surrounded by our flame-worked leaves.
I enjoy creating movements in my designs. It heightens interest, often as a surprise element.
I start with studying sheets of glass. The only control I have is selecting areas I find interesting.
If I introduce flame working, my influence extends into form and color.
This is one of my favorite examples. It’s in a series of four windows about 32″x 20″ in height. The theme of the four windows is the wind blowing through winter vines, releasing the last of leaves and berries.
The overall effect is that my art has a presence of both far away and near as one moves around the room.
I believe it is essential to have a rich emotional life.
Not only to be aware but to dive deeply into its meaning, to better understand ourselves, and to fully appreciate this aspect of being a human.
Over the years, I have learned that I need to take mine “out for a walk ” to appreciate and evaluate them from a different perspective from where they evolved.
Studying other countries, history, philosophy, and just about anything else removes me from this little environment where I tend to find comfort, safety, and certainty. It introduces me to many other possibilities and dissolves the stereotypes around me.
Many of my experiences in my little spot of the world also enrich my emotional life, especially our grandchildren, who have reintroduced me to what it means to be a human.
My part is to be receptive when I become aware of the opportunities.
I created this window in 2021 for a dear friend and patron who lives in Floyd, Virginia. It was for an interior transom.
Typically, I design vegetation toward the end of the growing season, when plants mature and show great character. For this window, I chose a whiplash design similar to those often seen in fabric.
All of the glass is flameworked. 1/2-inch strips of stained glass 18 inches long are held over a flame of propane and oxygen and annealed for 30 minutes at 990 degrees.
There are no molds or forms, only simple needle-nose plyers, a graphite paddle, and a plentiful imagination supply.
The background is clear pieces of glass assembled to form a backdrop for the finished piece. The pieces, representing colorful leaves moving in a whiplash fashion, are arranged, attached with UV adhesive, and cured with UV light.
I am constantly impressed by how opalescent glass comes alive with color and form after being worked over a flame, especially after each piece is freed from being wrapped in foil or lead as in a traditional window.
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.
I created this window for a home in northern Virginia around thirty-five years ago.
The 1/2-inch thick glass borders beveled on our 1915 beveling machines included zipper cuts. Zipper cuts were popular as decorative items and significantly increased the overall cost.
The center is beveled 3/8-inch glass with a brilliant cut star. Brilliant cutting is when the design is ground out with a stone and then polished with pumice and cerium oxide.
The background is light restoration glass with slight striations to avoid competing with the other accent pieces.
The zinc cames are free floating. By cutting out the center of the came, I can slide it over a portion of the glass that would be almost impossible to cut. A dot of solder on the end complements the line.
Two round jewels at the top and bottom of the oval complete the design.
The beauty of a hallway transom like this is how the light from the ceiling fixtures bounces around the small area, reflecting off all the angles in the beveled glass window.
The proper title for what I do is artist/craftsman.
I first heard of this description when I was in my early twenties. I was drawn to it because it is all-encompassing. I didn’t have to include anyone else in my creation; it set the stage for my free expression.
I’m not fond of titles. This goes back to my experience dealing with too many people with credentials who need to have the minds of their professions.
Around thirty years ago, a much younger artist asked me how long it took me to begin to feel like an artist. I told him seventeen years, and then I lost it again. I thought he was going to faint.
The older I get, the less titles mean to me. People know.
We are all so complicated that making a value judgment would take enormous time, open up large areas for speculation, and possibly lead to someone asking for evidence.
There are times I’m introduced as a real artist. I like the word “real.” I don’t think it gets any better than that.
This window is part of a series depicting the four seasons for a home North of Washington, DC. I created the series in 2020.
I start with an idea sketch to find the glass for such a window, wanting to remain as flexible as possible while searching. This invariably means a trip to my favorite glass factory, Youghiogheny Opalescent Glass Company, in Connellsville, Penn.
Their production is in the back of their complex, attached to a large warehouse in front full of rows of crates of stained glass stacked one row on top of the other. Each glass crate was made in one production run, meaning each crate contains the same color but various transparency levels. I always choose the most transparent because I like how the color comes alive in sunlight.
As I search for the best glass for my project, I inspect each crate, looking for something new. If I find something that has future potential, I will purchase a sheet or two.
Much of the glass I used in this project was from glass I bought, hoping to find a place for it.
This snowy, first-of-winter scene calls for glass found using a highly selective process that requires complete access to a factory warehouse and lots of patience. The time-consuming process carries over into the shop as decisions concerning direction and density are considered.
Sometimes, a project surprises us. In this case, the reflective light in the window on the right evokes the chilling effect of a cold winter night. It actually makes me feel cold as I view it.
I’ve only passively studied the history of art glass. I learned a little here and there. I was inspired as much by photographs of working studios, mainly how they were organized and the men and women who worked there.
In September 2013, I received a phone call from St. John’s Lutheran Church in South West Virginia from someone who wanted to discuss an idea with me.
They were beginning to rethink their cross. It could be more inspirational.
Over the years, I have noticed sheets of silvered stained glass when I visit some of my suppliers. I often wonder how I could use it in my projects one day. I bought several sheets to experiment with and demonstrate my ideas when an opportunity arose.
Everyone was ecstatic with the outcome, including me.
So much of my time is spent dealing with communication, taxes, insurance, fixing problems, and working out the details so we stay financially viable.
Today was different. I finished with all of the above thirty minutes into the day. It’s common to take two to three times that amount of time.
When designing, the coordination between my mind and mechanical pencils centers me. It’s like driving when I know everything works correctly and can focus on the journey.
From here, my mind is on the conversation my patron and I had as we shared our thoughts on our creation. We move into free association, where our minds explore the many possibilities of our project. We both want to use this time and our resources to make this project all it can be.
It takes patience and respect on both sides. Most of the people I engage with appreciate and enjoy the encounter. To be a part of sharing my experience, knowledge, and resources and their vision and knowing it will be a permanent fixture in their home is a tangible example of the effort we both put towards it.
Marketing, the ever-changing mystery commission artist must have some understanding of to survive.
Over the years, I have sent out postcards and letters, attended appointments and committee meetings, and displayed at craft shows.
These are the building blocks to gathering interest in my art. They are also time-consuming and usually take a long time to pay off.
One of the rewards of growing older is word of mouth. Occasionally, I get an email from someone who saw my work years ago and now has the place and funds to advance. Or, they read an article about my work and placed it in a drawer with the thought of future use.
I am flattered when someone wants to include my work in their home.
Of course, the internet, including websites, social media, blogs, and emails, is the way to market today. Unlike in the old days when I had to put so much effort into marketing, now I can reach a much broader audience in less time and with less expense.
Today, everyone can search worldwide for what they want, but when they circle back to me and let me know I am the one they want to work with, my heart leaps with gratitude for living long enough to experience the electronic world we live in.
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.
There are times when I get a little carried away and over-design.
Usually, there is a transition in my mind when I can’t find what I’m looking for, and a more playful idea develops, so I move in that direction to entertain myself.
This often leads to new design ideas and a new way of using the materials I work with.
I like the columns on each side of this window. They are similar but different from the ones I’ve seen before. The two connecting pieces at the top are thick, beveled 3/8″ glue-chipped glass to simulate a stone archway.
The window section would consist of various slightly tented blown glass assembled with zinc to resemble ancient architecture, with the family crest in the center.
Various vines, leaves, buds, and twigs attach themselves to the window to give the impression of an abandoned home or one where a lone eccentric lives.
I think of designing this way as I would writing fiction. I am learning through imagination.
Creating the art glass windows I make takes a lot of study.
First, I must study the idea, translate it into a drawing, find and select the colors, make a pattern that will meet the mechanical requirements of a well-built window, and study the best way to execute the piece.
Over the years, I have become comfortable with creative processes: thinking and doing, doing and thinking, and reevaluating new information. They are quick and easy to execute and fit my mental makeup.
As a student, I struggled with focusing, memory, and concentration. I learned later that being born left-handed but raised to be right-handed confused the workings of my right and left brain functions.
As with many of our shortcomings, I have learned over the years to compensate. Creativity in the form of drawing and building things has taught me a better way to learn, in large part because I express my ideas in a way that doesn’t rely so much on my memory but records my progress in a tangible way.
Around forty years ago, I started reading ancient Greek philosophy. I remember one discussion about education: Is education teaching every student the same thing simultaneously, or is it allowing each student to develop in their own way?
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.
1985, we worked with St Peter Baptist Church in Glen Allen, Virginia, creating their new stained glass windows.
Before social media, we would share our progress on large projects using storyboards.
Early in my career, I learned that eliminating surprises, especially in large groups, was desirable. Any documentation approved by the stained glass committee carried a lot of weight.
Before email, I would take photographs and mail them to our patrons, along with a few business cards. This proved an excellent marketing tool as they would share them with friends and pass along our cards. One can’t beat word-of-mouth promotion.
I have carried this practice to all our projects now that we are in the internet era. Although most of our work now is residential, the same principles apply.
The bottom line is that keeping our patron informed is appreciated as a courtesy. Being a commission artist is tricky enough; good social skills are key to a successful project.
