Reflections on glass
The boys and I have been working our way through a series of DVDs featuring Dale Chihuly, the famed American glass-blowing artist. It is such a mesmerizing process to watch, the cutting, spinning, blowing, and torching of the glass. I was surprised how much the kids got into it.
Chihuly will always have a special place in our hearts, ever since Seth and I went to an exhibit of his in Salt Lake during the 2002 Winter Olympics. It was Valentine’s Day, and this was our big date. I was five months pregnant with our first son. The jury was still out on what to name him.
The exhibit was phenomenal, bold and brilliant. In part of the exhibit we were told to lie on our backs and look up at the glass displayed on the ceiling above us. We gazed up at balls and oddments and intricate glass cherubs, and even though it is never fun to lie on your back when you are that pregnant, I could have stared at that ceiling forever.
At the end of the exhibit there was a video of Chihuly, sporting his trademark eye patch and doing his artistic thing. And there was a brief interaction with his young son, who he called by name.
“Come here, Jackson,” he said.
Seth and I, sitting in that darkened theater, turned and looked at each other.
Jackson. We had never heard that name before. But we instantly loved it.
And thus, and thus.
So yes, Chihuly has a special place in our hearts. As does our own little Jackson.
(We wanted to do a little sculpting of our own in these parts, with a medium that was a wee bit safer than thousands-of-degrees-hot melted glass. So on a recent Sunday afternoon, we took our Sculpey out on the back lawn. Stand back Chihuly–you’ve met your match.)