The Home Stretch

Monday, Sept 9.

Showers and sunbreaks, cooling down. Big thunderstorm on Saturday night, and heavy rain. Good for the forest, and for reducing fire danger.

The work is starting in earnest, finally. The last few days have been finishing up the preliminary steps, tedious but essential. From the original enlargement of the 19th century wood engraving, the next step was to assign colors to all the areas and define the "cutlines", literally, where the glass will be cut. That first drawing of the cutlines is done on tracing paper, and each piece to be cut is given a number and an alphabetical code for the color it is. When working on a project of this size (more thatn 120 pieces to be cut in 18 different colors, organization and control) a lot of thinking and planning has to precede the actual work.

Here's the traced cutline:

 Then, the design is traced again onto pattern paper applying analog technology: a pencil and carbon paper. Using a pair of sheers that removes a 1/8 inch piece between the pieces (here to allow for grout lines, and ordinarily used when leading windows to account for the width of the interior channel of the lead), the pattern paper is slowly cut apart into discrete pieces, each with its alphanumeric identifier for color and location. Tricky business, since the sheers have a complicated turning radius. Some fine details need to be cut with an Xacto knife. Below, the first pieces removed.  The process was slow: it took a full day to get the cutline drawn, and a full day to cut the pattern.

 

The spaghetti on the table isn't lunch: it's the 1/8 inch remainders of the cuts

Once the pattern is cut, the pieces are sorted and stored, The cutline goes back onto the work surface on top of a huge white sheet of paper cut to the exact scale of the final project. 

Then the glass cutting finally began, this morning. Smooth and easy.  I'm starting with the green, then moving on to the other colors, working from bottom up, (next colors to cut are Oregon gray, light amber, and khaki. I'll also launch into the heavens tomorrow doing a test cutting of a couple of pieces of the heavens, and tacking down the stars on them.  I'll follow up with some more photos of that technique in the next day or two and some action shots of glass cutting and painting. 

 

Each of these pieces will next be painted with an enamel-like paint made of ground metal oxides and carried in a medium of water and gum arabic: a formulation that goes back to early medieval times. That part is coming slowly, but I'm pretty confident after a few test pieces that came out well.  The painting portion (done over a large light box) will be a school of patience, as each piece of glass is not only painted, but then fired to 1275 degrees and carefully cooled. Some will require two firings. 

LOCAL COLOR

I met the local church on Sunday, when I presided at two masses: one in Cashmere, about 45 minutes away, and the second in Leavenworth, Washington State's faux Bavaria (20 minutes from Plain, where I'm living now).  The local priest is overworked, and I've got to go to church anyway, so I'll be helping out.  Cashmere is a little agricultural town (apple country) right out of the 1940s. After Mass I went to the Chelan County Fair. Small and folksy, and at the deacon's suggestion, I had a world class corn dog at the American Legion concession stand. 

I'm attaching two photos: one of the inside of the little church (soon to be replaced when two parishes are consolidated into a new plant), and the other, a Tee Shirt on sale at the Republican Ladies booth.  They were horrified that I am from California, a state that they insist needs Mr. Trump more than anywhere else.  I smiled politely and went on my way.  

 

Travel, they say, is broadening.  New perspectives on wild fires, to be sure ("Log it, Graze it, or Watch it Burn"), and on Church Music as well. In Cashmere, the deacon's wife told me they have what they call "Karaoke Mass"; the hymns and mass parts are accompanied by prerecorded music, but the people do the singing. Actually quite well.  Fortunately, they use hymnals, rather than a screen with a bouncing ball.  

In Leavenworth, Little Bavaria, I was waiting, vested, in the the vestibule before the second mass was to begin, looking around. I noticed that there was a cantor, but no keyboard, organ, or guitar. More karaoke, perhaps?  No, better yet.  Rather, a robust, silver haired-matron with a large accordion played everything from the St. Louis Jesuits to the Agnus Dei to The Battle Hymn of the Republic as the recessional, all with determination and a light overlay of polka.  "Mine Eyes (and ears?) have seen the coming of the glory of the Lord." 

On a more serious note, Sept. 7, last Friday, my remaining six classmates and I celebrated 44 years since we began this quest as novices, on the vigil of the Nativity of Our Lady, 1975, under the slenderest crescent moon over Montecito.  All weekend, my heart was full of gratitude for all the graces and adventures since then. 

Finally, last night, sitting on the old metal bridge watching the light change into sunset, a man and his wife walked by.  His comment was just this side of prophetic:  

"Soak it all in. Winter's not far away."  

Alas, too true.