As I peer through the crystal ball into 2025, I’ve decided that getting a handle on perfection must be one of my main goals. It’s just as hard as shedding that extra 30 pounds I’ve been carrying around for 10 years. Maybe harder. Why?
Well, I can eat less, exercise more, and the weight, if I’m consistent and make some permanent lifestyle changes, will come off and maybe even stay off. It’s a pretty simple action-reaction equation. But perfection is an invisible force. And, if the title of this blog is any indication, it’s complex and even contradictory. What is its real purpose in the life of any artist, and how can I come to terms with it?
Is perfection a monster? A slave-driver? Nemesis? A noon-day demon, to borrow a great book’s title by Andrew Solomon? An encourager? A friend? Mentor? Or even something more evasive—a mirage? I've said it before: working with glass is like being in a passionate relationship with the most beautiful, capricious lover you can imagine because glasswork, like a difficult lover, conveys my imperfection so easily and clearly.
Some imperfections are easily dealt with. Got some devitrification on the front of a piece? Coat the rough spot with a little glass flux and fire polish. Got some needles on an edge? Grind them off—but make that line straight. Have a large bubble in a piece? Well, now you’re in trouble. Re-fire it until it pops and heals? Cut it out, fill in the hole, and re-fire? Now things are getting complicated.
Here are a few of my struggles and results while under the hot gaze of the perfection monster. I had a huge green blob of glass that was supposed to be a stand of trees in a piece I made for my first class with LA artist Tim Carey, of Holy Frit fame. I cut it out, backfilled the gaping hole with clear frit, fired that flat, and then fired some wafer-style trees back onto the picture—a respectable attempt to placate the ogre.
(East River near Crested Butte)
I’ve also had to resort to hand-sawing the holes in light switch covers because the commercial molds available just don’t work for me no matter how little or how much heat I give the frit pile in the mold. So, I take a plastic cover, center it and clamp it to the glass one (which has no center hole), and then mark in the hole with a permanent marker. Then I drill a hole through that and put it in the ring saw equipped with a separating blade and freehand the hole out. And oh, did I mention the holes for screws are another matter altogether? Even though I mark these in, too, and use a drill press, they don’t often line up perfectly with the switch hardware in the wall unless I make them a little bigger and use 7/8-inch long screws to reach the holes.
These results, while far from perfect, at least give me some functional covers to work with. I almost gave up on making these last year, but after a cooling-off period, I’m back at it. Call me a glutton for punishment. The most deformed ones go in my house, but now that I’m thinking about it, maybe that’s a bad idea: all I have to do to remind myself of the imperfections is turn on the light.
I’ve even seen recent posts in Facebook glass groups about monetizing mistakes and imperfections by figuring out how to repeat them if they’re compelling enough. This is certainly another way to deal with the drive for perfection. But I’d submit repeating an imperfection is about as difficult as getting it right the first time.
Then there is the role of heatwork: the kiln can actually help correct imperfections, and thank goodness! Suppose the layers of glass you put into the kiln are not exactly the same size? What about a tiny nick or scratch? Suppose the pieces broke apart while you were scoring and breaking them out (happens to me fairly often while making circles)? A good full fuse will often correct any of these flaws, and when that happens, I’m grateful the kiln achieved what I couldn’t on the first pass. But even knowing the kiln is sometimes an ally, I always feel driven by perfection—chased by the monster—to have that first-pass bliss.
I love making drinking glasses, though long drops through molds are really tricky. Aside from the fact that all colors slump at different rates--which means a bi-colored glass my slump faster on one side than on another--there's the challenge of getting a mirror-perfect, flat and non-sharp edge to put your lips against. While I've achieved decent results while hand-cutting and polishing, my results with a lap wheel were . . . imperfect.
But on the bright side, there's not a sharp edge anywhere to put a lip-lock on.
My friends who don’t work with glass often say to me, “Well, if you hadn’t pointed out that flaw, I’d have never known!” or “No one can see that mistake but you. Sell it.” While these statements might be mostly true, I do have trouble selling something I’m not completely happy with. But if I fully gave in to that feeling, I’d have so little to sell it would be comical. Here’s another statement I hear: “Those flaws give it character.” Yes, they do. They indicate a lack of mass-produced, boring precision, if nothing else.
I thought it would be good to get perspectives from some of my glass artist friends. Though it’s not a surprise, it’s still reassuring to know that I’m not the only one who struggles. Dorothy Miller discovered the quest for perfection over-arches many things in her life, and when it comes to glass, she says, “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve redone something to try and have it be flawless. There always comes a point in time where say, ‘This is as good as I can do.’ It’s at that point that I move on to the next project and start the process over again—the ‘hamster wheel’ of perfection.” I love that analogy—that’s exactly how I feel sometimes!
Pam Rathke notes, “When I first started working with fused glass, I wanted to have the best piece in the class. I quickly realized that I was not the most talented. As I practiced my new love, what I discovered was that glass has its own personality. So for me, as I am still learning, opening the kiln at the end of the program is still a surprise … usually good, but sometimes not. Now I only stress about perfection when it comes to a commissioned piece.” Commissions do bring their own level of perfection angst. Sometimes, our job as glass artists is to convince those customers to adjust their expectations of perfection by helping them understand glass processes better because, as Pam noted, glass is glass. It’s unique, and even though we can sometimes make it convey paint-like qualities, it’s not paint--but it can do things paint cannot do.
It’s been helpful, also, for me to take a couple of classes with artist Tim Carey. I’ve watched him struggle with perfection in his own work, but when perfection bullies him too much, he seems to be able to put the monster in its box.
So, what have I decided about perfection? I’ve decided that it has its place, and that place is not nearly as high or mighty as it wants to be. Does that mean I will ignore it? No. I will keep learning and stretching myself do be better at what I do, and when I fall short, it’s an opportunity to regroup and learn some more. This is Perfection as Mentor.
Am I going to sell those light switch covers at the Chaffee County Home and Garden Show on April 5th-6th? I guess you’ll just have to come and find out. (I’ll be in the South Building.)
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