Glass Art Installation for Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital, 2013

“A work of art is never finished, it is abandoned.”
(attributed to Leonardo da Vinci)

I always have mixed feelings when I complete a major project like “Water Walk,” my new glass art installation for Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital, shown above. On the one hand, there’s a huge sense of release and relief, a feeling of accomplishment. On the other hand, there’s also a profound melancholy in letting go, parting with something into which I’ve poured so much time and energy. It’s difficult to stop refining the work—inevitably there’s always more I would do if given the time and resources, details I yearn to keep tweaking and perfecting—but at some point, an artist has to declare a work “finished” and walk away.

In that moment of departure, it can be difficult for me to stand back and really see the piece in its totality; my eye goes straight to the details. I have to have some time away from it, maybe even see it mediated through photography, before I can register its wholeness. And when it does finally register, there’s always an exhilarating element of surprise. After all, no matter how much planning and rendering one might do, there’s ultimately no way to know how a piece will look until it’s fully manifest, with the proper materials, at scale, in space. In the case of commissioned work, the result should not deviate from what the artist proposed, of course, but it’s nevertheless exciting to see how it comes to life—how it becomes something bigger than the artist, something with a whole existence of its own.

Without going off onto a tangent about the nature of art (that’s a whole different series of posts), I would venture that, in a sense, “Water Walk” is no longer mine. It now lives to reflect the thoughts, experiences, and associations of the viewer. It now belongs to those who behold it.

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Glass art installation at Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital, 2013

I am pleased to announce that “Water Walk,” my glass art installation for the lobby of the new Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital, is complete and available for public viewing. It’s been a long, exhausting, exhilarating journey! Stay tuned for one final post in this series, on the emotional aftermath of completing a major project.

Second floor view of glass art installation at Spaulding Rehab

Detail of glass art installation at Spaulding Rehab

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Workers beginning installation of the art glass at Spaulding

Something interesting I might note about my glass art installation for Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital is the fact that this piece will be one element of the larger “Spaulding Art Program.” That program, in turn, is part of an overarching effort to create a holistic healing environment, for patients as well as staff, families, and other visitors.

Spaulding has been working with Boston Art Inc. to conceive and carry out this art program. Boston Art is an art consulting firm that, among other things, works closely with clients to select or commission art appropriate to different settings. My early conversations about this project involved a focus committee comprised of folks from Partners Healthcare (the parent company of Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital), Spaulding itself, Boston Art, Perkins+Will (the architects), and others affiliated with the new facility. We talked about how all of the art at Spaulding should aim to connect with patients in some positive way. That could happen directly, by triggering a meaningful memory or conversation, or maybe in a more nuanced way, through a pleasant sensory or emotional experience. The group had a great understanding that art could and should interact with the whole environment, from the architectural space and light conditions to the diverse variety of people who will comprise the patients, staff, and visitors. They were familiar with my work at CalSTRS and wanted something for the Spaulding lobby that could similarly “interact with the people and space, change over time, never seem stagnant, be a living part of the building.” As one person put it, “Yes, Spaulding is in the business of CURING patient illnesses, but with this new space, there is a revived focus on HEALING the patient and the human spirit, and the quality of their environment, and their care (not just medical) all contribute to that healing process.“

Members of the art focus committee inspecting the site

As an artist, creating work for major institutions always presents some unique challenges; there are always multiple cooks in the kitchen, and sometimes the priorities turn out to have little to do with art itself. Such negotiations can be crazy-making for artists accustomed to pursuing their own vision. Yet, while this project hasn’t been without challenges innate to the task, I have to say it’s been a pleasure working with people so grounded in the mission of helping others. Rather than prescriptive demands, they came to me with inspiring prompts. “It should be a piece that says ‘yes, we care about creating an environment that is nurturing, beautiful, uplifting, timeless, one that speaks to regeneration, boundlessness, and moving forward,” wrote a consultant in an email. “[It should say] ‘we value the creative process and the power of the human spirit and body; we understand that being in a hospital isn’t a happy experience but at Spaulding we are going to do everything we can to make your time here one of growth, and your environment will reflect our mission to help you move forward towards positive changes.’”

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Working on my glass art installation for Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital

Wherever the art of medicine is loved, there is also a love of humanity.
- Hippocrates

Something I haven’t really touched on yet in my posts about the Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital project is concept. My interest in process and chance operations might be apparent, but why, you may wonder, do I choose one particular process or operation and not others for a glass art installation? What fuels the impulses and decisions? Why certain colors or certain qualities of paint and light over other others? What inspires this work?

Part of my initial interest in this project came from learning about Spaulding’s unique holistic philosophy (which I highlight a bit here). They are committed to integrating patients into the wider community both during and after their time at Spaulding, in large part by envisioning the hospital campus as a true community hub rather than an isolated institution. They want members of the public to feel welcome there, even if they’re not visiting a patient. Among other great initiatives in that direction, they’re planning to make good use of their harbor location by facilitating therapeutic water sports, canoeing, kayaking, and more through the Dr. Charles H. Weingarten Adaptive Sports & Recreation Program.

Thus, as I contemplated a work for the Spaulding lobby, I found myself thinking about water, its movement, the play of reflections on its surface and the connections between water and healing. Throughout history, water has been considered nature’s healer. Hippocrates, considered the father of western medicine, prescribed bathing in spring water for sickness. Pictures of ancient Egyptians, found in tombs, show people preparing for a bath. Ancient Persians and Greeks erected magnificent public baths. Two noted physicians of the Roman Empire, Celsus and Galen, glorified the bath as being invaluable for the treatment of many specific diseases.

Even now, water is central to the rituals and practices of many of the world’s religions. It is used to cleanse and to purify, both physically and spiritually. According to the Kabbalah, the ancient Jewish mystical interpretation of the Bible, water is the Light of God made manifest in the physical world. Of course, even if you’re not religious, water resonates on a scientific level. Without water, there is no life! Up to 60% of the human body is water. No matter what our beliefs or background, human beings are drawn to water for its soothing movements and fascinating textures, for its meditative sounds and ever-changing surface. It is a metaphor for the presence and flow of life and spirit. It can be a point of focus for meditation and reflection.

Photo of rippling water by McConnell Franklin (via Flickr)

All of these threads of thought contributed to the unfolding of my design for the Spaulding installation — the scale, the blues and greens, the smattering of other colors, the reflective quality of the glass, the abstract patterns that will mirror the harbor just outside. I’m looking forward to the day — which is fast approaching — when I can finally see it, complete, in its new home.

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“Cracked Egg” by Jeff Koons (via Big Think)

In mulling over the controversies of collaborative art processes, I can’t help but think of renowned figures like Jeff Koons. For anyone who might be unfamiliar with his work, Koons is at the extreme end of the “collaboration” spectrum; he designs but doesn’t touch his own work. Instead, he famously employs many other artists to make it. “I’m basically the idea person,” he once told The Journal of Contemporary Art. “I’m not physically involved in the production. I don’t have the necessary abilities, so I go to the top people.” But by going to the “top people,” he’s not talking about working alongside professional studios like Derix to explore and accomplish highly advanced techniques; rather he recruits young aspiring artists through open calls to produce his work in a factory-like setting. These artists aren’t apprentices, in the traditional sense, who develop their skills by closely assisting and observing Koons at work. Instead, typically, each employee is assigned one task that gets performed over and over. 70+ workers tend to be developing dozens, if not hundreds, of pieces on any given day.

Last year, The New York Times Magazine published an intriguing essay by John Powers who had worked for Koons as a young art student. Though his duties were narrow and tedious, he seemed to enjoy it — a better way to pay for school than serving tables, maybe — until the piece he spent five months meticulously painting (“Cracked Egg,” above) got irreparably damaged and had to be restarted from scratch. He wound up quitting and eventually left art school without his degree, abandoning painting altogether because he had grown “too tight, too constrained, too controlled.” Meanwhile, the new version of “Cracked Egg,” undoubtedly completed by other hired hands but “by” Jeff Koons for all intents and purposes, sold at Christie’s in London for $501,933.

A recent Hyperallergic article, pointedly titled “Why Not to Work for Jeff Koons,” takes aim at this “factory” culture, focusing not on questions of credit and profit, but asking instead, “What’s the point?” Young artists working for Koons earn an hourly wage and gain a glamorous line on their resumes; but they don’t get what an assistantship normally would offer — “one-on-one dialogue with the artist, a chance to develop a professional relationship and gain knowledge, which would likely be imparted to you in higher frequency than money, and thus forms the main benefit of doing the work.” According to Powers’ account, Koons isn’t totally absent from his atelier, but his hired workers definitely work more with each other than with him; and with pigeonholed tasks rather than holistic involvement, the process arguably risks being more damaging than nurturing.

Koons might be one of the more notorious contemporary personas working this way, but he’s certainly not alone. Many artists, out of necessity or desire, utilize the skills of other artists to fabricate their work, with varying degrees of mentorship, compensation, and credit. For reasons related to both process and philosophy, my collaborations with other artists happen under vastly different circumstances than something like the Koons factory. Yet it’s interesting to contemplate the overlapping questions and decisions that come up in such different cases.

Do you collaborate with other artists to produce your work? If so, what’s your approach? What do you find useful and invigorating? Where do you draw lines?

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Olaf at Derix, working on the Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital project

Some people believe that works of art created by a team are somehow diminished in their artistic value. This logic assumes that “art” is only that which is results from the vision and skill of a single individual. For some types of work, that may be true.

There are countless examples of work, however, that cannot be produced by a single individual. A sculptor might require the services of a foundry. Glass blowers typically work in teams. A composer obviously requires an orchestra. Painters once mixed their own colors; but during the 18th and 19th centuries, professional mixers known as “colormen” began to make and sell paint to artists. While this supporting cast certainly is in service to the artist and his/her artistic vision, in ways both subtle and not so subtle, they can’t help but influence the outcome of the work. Without the support of a team, much art could not exist.

The same is true for many of my architectural glass installations. The technical demands are simply beyond the capabilities of my studio, especially in the face of tight deadlines. Working with others — as in my current collaboration with Derix — has enabled me to take on projects I could not have accepted otherwise. It also continually opens my eyes to the possibilities of glass, allowing me to envision works that exceed the limits of my own skill and knowledge.

The artisans at Derix have a rich technical knowledge, partly having gone through a traditional apprenticeship program and partly having worked on such a diversity of projects. In contrast to an individual artist who might specialize in certain techniques or gravitate to a certain aesthetic, these folks have experience working in myriad styles and solving many different kinds of problems. If I specify a certain color of paint, for example, they know which colors may react poorly with a particular kind of glass, or with other colors, or provide a matte versus glossy finish, and so on.

For the Spaulding project, I provided Derix with paintings in watercolor to be reproduced on sheets of mouthblown glass. These sheets of painted glass constituted the “raw” material for the installation. The watercolors had been very freely painted and the paint had run and absorbed into the paper. There were variations in density, edges both soft and ragged. Olaf, one of the artisans with whom I’ve been working, immediately knew how to reproduce these effects on glass without losing the free and spontaneous quality of the paint. While I had provided the paintings as a kind of inspiration — asking him to reproduce the paintings as closely as possible with the understanding it would not be a photographic reproduction — he was nevertheless able to translate the painting into glass with astounding precision. He captured more or less the same variation in color density, the same ragged edges in the same places, the same soft edges in other places, everything.

Frankly, this experience was a revelation. Olaf knew how to achieve nuanced effects with the glass paint that I hadn’t known were possible. I also realized I had to consider more carefully what I presented to him, as he just might reproduce every detail of it in glass!

Another time, I went to Derix with a proposal for a project that came with a very restricted budget. The folks at Derix were able to provide several solutions for how the project could be realized, based both on their extensive knowledge of the different types of glass available and their long history of quoting jobs. They also simply lend additional eyes to the work. There’s ongoing dialogue, feedback, and input — a chance to test ideas and get other people’s thoughts. Artists vary in their openness to such input; but for me, it’s invaluable. In my experience with Derix, such feedback has always been presented with respect for me as a professional and for the vision of the work. If that weren’t the case, I would be less open to it.

If one believes that an individual artist’s talent and skill are paramount in assessing the quality of the work, then perhaps works created by a team are less about “art.” If, on the other hand, one accepts that art is as much about the viewer’s experience, or that art takes on a transcendent life of its own, then I would propose that there is no one right way to make art.

If one of my works is created with help from a team, is it any less mine? And, is it any less a work of art? In response to the first question, I think it’s fair to say that the work would not have happened without me. I conceived, designed, directed, and contributed to its fabrication. As for the second question — is it any less a work of art — you can probably guess what I think, but my response ultimately has to be: Does it matter?

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Construction toward the new lobby of Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital

Paul Cezanne once observed, “It’s so fine and yet so terrible to stand in front of a blank canvas.” The task of facing the blank canvas, or beginning any new project, is notoriously paralyzing for many artists. Where to begin? How to begin? What if I invest all this work and then it fails?

I’ve noticed that artists lean toward one of two camps when it comes to pushing through this moment. In the first camp, we have those who see their work fully formed and perfect in their mind’s eye. Their task is finding a way to transfer that mental image to tangible reality. Thus they might begin by creating a series of detailed sketches or carefully laying out a design. The work will, no doubt, evolve and change, but it always gravitates to the artist’s preconceived vision.

In the second camp, the artist begins by making a mark, any mark, on the (proverbial) canvas, then steps back, reflects upon the mark just made and makes a second mark in response. And, then a third mark in response to the first two. This process continues until the idea emerges. The initial marks might get lost, covered up, but it doesn’t matter. Once the artist has made the initial mark, the canvas is no longer blank. From there, the artist is released from self-consciousness and able to play, explore, discover, and respond to everything that the initial mark evokes. To be sure, I believe most good artists rely on both strategies to varying degrees. When artists talk about the “dialogue with the canvas,” this is what is they are referring to.

With the Spaulding project, I faced the blank canvas of the beautiful, brand new lobby-to-be. As I thought about the possibilities and parameters, alongside Spaulding’s services and philosophy, many impulses and elements came to mind, but, as with most of my work, the initial concept was nothing more than a vague sensation of color and movement. Starting with watercolor on paper, I had to first simply make a mark, then respond to it, then respond to that, and eventually the design unfolded before me. (You can read a bit more about that process here.)

Final rendering of my concept for the Spaulding lobby

The Onion once ran a standalone headline that read, “Blank Canvas Equally Terrified of Artist.” Go figure.

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Jackson Pollock’s “Summertime: Number 9A,” 1948 (via Tate)

A colleague recently told me about the Tate Modern’s current exhibit “A Bigger Splash,” which examines the dynamic relationship between painting and performance since 1950. That sounds broad and it is — the exhibit covers a vast range of work — but the curator notes that she’s most interested in “the ways in which artists’ experiments with action, self-presentation and theatricality have had an impact upon how the next generation understand the possibilities for painting today.” This intriguing task begins with a look at the emergence of action painting, by way of (who else) Jackson Pollock. If you’ve been following my posts about the Spaulding project, you know that I’ve been contemplating action painting a lot these days.

The exhibit runs through April 1, but sadly, I don’t think I’ll be able to get over to London this spring. If you happen to be in the UK, check it out and let me know what you think!

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Number 1A, 1948, by Jackson Pollock (via MoMA)

There is the story, perhaps apocryphal, of the museum-goer standing before a Jackson Pollack painting and commenting, “My five-year-old could do that.”

Well, the fact is, his five-year-old didn’t do that and, really, no, his five-year-old could not do that. Throwing paint is not difficult; but throwing paint with significance, meaning, and artistry is harder than it looks — a fact of which I was reminded while designing the piece for Spaulding.

Sure, anyone can fling paint on a canvas in a manner that recalls Jackson Pollack (you can even do it without spending money on paint at this clever site). But to borrow critic Harold Rosenberg’s words, “At a certain moment the canvas began to appear to one American painter after another as an arena in which to act — rather than as a space in which to reproduce, re-design, analyze or express an object, actual or imagined. What was to go on the canvas was not a picture but an event.” Rosenberg was referring to the emergence of “action painting,” a term he coined in 1952 to describe processes in which paint is poured, splashed, dribbled, or smeared onto a canvas or other surface, rather than being carefully applied.

Peeling billboard (via Flickr)

Much of my work explores the juxtaposition of order and randomness. I am inspired by the very ordinary, yet strangely beautiful, phenomenon of degradation — peeling paint on shingles and billboards, rusted metal siding — ordered objects altered by the more or less random effects of nature. There’s the grid, then the haphazard degradation of material within the grid. I like grids and use them as a basis for my work, in part as a practical matter, as they allow me to make large installations unlimited by “standard” sizes of glass; but the grid also relates to architecture as one of its essential structures (think square rooms, walls at right angles, and the basic shape of most building materials).

Once a grid is established, I have many choices in terms of how I can make marks on glass; paint directly applied with a brush is just one of the many. Paint can be poured from cups, splattered from brushes, sprayed, or airbrushed. It can be directional, so as to create a sort of grain or to imply the effects of gravity. It can have a hard or soft edge, be opaque or transparent, allowed to dry or be fired, and layered with additional paint. It can be mixed with water or other mediums, which will create different effects. It can be manipulated with compressed air. The possibilities are endless, but with all of these methods, it’s notable that the paint can be manipulated with as much skill and nuance as paint applied with a brush.

Olaf of Derix Glass pouring glass paint.

What I like about poured or spattered paint is that it recalls the hand of the artist. Among other things, it reminds us, “This is handmade.” There is a distinct kind of intention to the work. Hence, for the Spaulding project, I’ve opted to pour paint on large sheets of mouth-blown glass, which are then cut down to the size of the tiles. One cannot see exactly what the individual tiles will look like during the painting process or make adjustments to them. For the most part, that’s fine; the individual marks are not important except as they contribute to the totality of the work. This process contributes to the random quality of the paint, which seems to extend beyond the edges of the glass.

However, as you might imagine, this way of working can be as tricky as it is exciting; for if I do decide I want to change the look of the piece, I must change my whole method of painting.

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(L-R) Yours truly and Olaf from Derix Glass Studios working on the Spaulding Project

Many people don’t realize it, but much of my glass art installation work is highly collaborative. A project like this latest project for Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital couldn’t happen without the creative input, skills, and assistance of others.

Key among the many different kinds of people that contribute to such a project is often an independent glass studio, in this case Derix Glass Studios, Taunusstein, Germany. How collaboration with a studio works varies considerably depending upon the  nature of the project, the temperament of the artist, and the budget. An artist like myself might approach a studio with a detailed design that the studio’s craftspeople carry out; or, as in this project, I might bring them a concept that we then work together to implement with a certain degree of artistic flexibility, the emphasis on capturing the spirit of the piece over exact replication of the design.

How does that work, you might wonder? Well, for the Spaulding project, I created an initial design and sent it to Derix. As with many of my large glass art installations, this design process consisted of making watercolor paintings on paper, scanning the paintings, “cutting” up the scanned paintings in Photoshop to create “tiles,” arranging and rearranging the tiles, and repeating the whole process until I was happy with the look.

This approach to design is very much one of discovery, combining the spontaneous and gestural aspects traditionally associated with “action painting” and the strict constraints of the grid. The challenge then for Derix is to reproduce this quality in glass, an unforgiving medium by nature.

Some of my watercolor “sketches” to be reproduced on full sheets of flashed opal glass, then cut down into smaller individual tiles

The process of working with Derix has also been one of discovery, determining how best to communicate my vision, monitor the fabrication process, and yet leave the highly skilled craftspeople of Derix enough latitude to improvise.

In an earlier collaboration, I sent a design concept to Derix which they then used to create roughly a dozen sample tiles with an array of different painting techniques. The design was nearly identical in each version, but the quality of the color and the way the tiles responded to light were different based on which painting technique had been used. Some of the tiles looked very polished while others looked more haphazard, more revealing of the painting process. These latter versions were the ones I liked best; though at the same time, they presented a greater risk that the project could “get away” from me. (As I mentioned before, I’ll have to devote a separate post to this painting process soon. It’s really an exhilarating — sometimes frightening — way to work.)

Having established that general format for collaboration, I created the rendering that I showed you earlier this week and now have made two trips to Germany to collaborate with Derix on the intensive work of bringing that concept to life. The tiles will be shipped to Boston next month, then installed in a whirlwind ten days. We have a lot to do in a short amount of time, but it’s exciting to see the piece beginning to emerge.

I’ll keep posting updates as we go… wish us luck!

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