"That's a gorgeous sweatshirt," I said admiringly. David smiled, wide and delighted, with lots of teeth. "Thank you very much," he said, and stopped to chat, "I'm David." A frail-looking man in his 60s, he was wearing a black pinstriped fedora with fashionable glasses, neat brown oxfords, highly polished, and worsted brown slacks with the creases carefully pressed in. And the sweatshirt made the outfit.
It was the perfect end to a very glassy week. I've been to a few BEcons, and this was the best, IMHO. Of course, it helps that it was about casting, my current obsession, and that BE attracted some of my favorite casting artists as speakers. Gotta give kudos to the BE staff, not only for pulling this off at all, but for keeping 250 cats herded fairly efficiently.
As much as I love the pate de verre processes I'm investigating, they can get kinda intense, tedious and looooong. And they don't exactly happen overnight. It's amazing how nice it feels just to quickly FUSE something for a change. I'm part of the Oregon Glass Guild, and every year we get together with the Oregon Potters Association (huge, well-oiled org that dwarfs little OGG) for the Empty Bowls benefit. Members get together to make bowls from donated materials, and anything goes--whatever you can dream up with what's at hand, you can make.
You measure the quality of a conference by deltas. That's delta as in change, not large-muddy-lump-guarding-the-Mississippi. The delta between your pre- and post-conference who/what/which/how knowledge should be at least as great as the trouble and expense you've invested in going. As far as I'm concerned, BEcon's day two deltas pretty much paid for the trip.
I'm learning why sculptors rarely do their own casting; it takes you too far away from the seminal part of things (i.e., sculpting) for far too long. Lately, sculpture seems to be mostly hurry up and go do something else, which is driving me nuts. In an effort to change that, I'm building myself a new studio...which is also delaying things.
The cat rode Jim's shoulder like a mahout, warily eyeing glassland as it crashed around them. I'd thought at first that the work-worn man in the tan leather vest sported a coonskin cap; its lushly banded chestnut and sable tail dangled down his back almost to his waist. Then the cap moved, the man turned...and there was a cat on board.
Rose growled. I'd been aiming for a nice angled shot down the tracks and unwittingly stepped into her personal space. We were waiting on the platform for MAX, the Portland city train. It was raining, and we were the only ones not under the crowded canopy. My hooded raincoat kept most of the water off me, but this lady perched hatless on a metal bench, out in the rain, clutching a soggy MAX pass. The notice said we had 15 minutes before the next train, and I figured it was even money whether she'd jump the tracks and flee before it arrived, or drown.
Yesterday I got a corporate credit card statement from American Express. Problem is, I haven’t had an Amex card for three years. The company listed was my old employer, it showed a zero balance and then told me payment was due immediately or I’d have to pay a penalty. Huh? […]
The girl on the platform caught my eye because she didn't fit. Just didn't fit at all. Waiting for the train with a dozen Portlanders blinking at the bright spring sunshine, she was as sharply, carefully dressed as they were not.
The Furry Red Menace died this afternoon. Or rather, I approved his euthanasia. And of all the goofy things to think about at such a time, the thing that kept running through my mind was that Rajah hung on until we ran out of cat food. He just wasn't going to leave until he'd gotten every last bite out of life. Or at least out of the pantry.
