“Solitude”…a descriptive essay.
January 13, 2008
Solitude
~a descriptive essay by Lori Bouchard~
My favorite place to go is one where I am alone in physical being and thought. It is a place for me to get away from the crowded and chaotic doldrums of everyday life. It is a place where I can escape being a wife and a mother and a daughter and a friend. I am truly free to be myself there. It is a place where I can release my creative muse. This solitary place is my glass studio.
This studio can barely be called such since it is merely a small area in a large cold garage. It is a tiny corner surrounded by car parts, extra tires, and old cars in various states of rest. The smells of strong coffee and old motor oil mix with those of torched silver, glass fumes, and propane. The heater is high in the ceiling rafters and at the opposite end of this space, leaving my part of it chilly and feeling isolated. A large picture window and the glass door are my only connection to the outside world. The old, dusty vertical blinds allow me control over the amount of light as well as the level of outside intrusion into my time here. They give me the option of completely cutting off the outside world.
My old metal Craftsman workbench is the most prominent feature. Pushed against an old gray concrete wall, its top is cluttered in organized chaos. Rods of colored glass, in small piles to the right and others in glass jars like candy sticks along the back of the bench, beg to be made into something wonderful. Drawers down the right side hold colored glass chips, pure silver foil leafs, and strange looking tools which can be reached easily with one hand when at work. My torch is clamped to the top of the bench and seems almost as a brass beacon calling me to light it. When lit, the torch is quite loud, blocking out most of the noise from outside. The earphones from my MP3 player in my jeans’ pocket allows me further isolation through whatever type of music suits my creative mood- sometimes heavy metal, sometimes classical. . My torch is directly surrounded by various jars labeled “Bucket O Mud”, and a shiny steel bowl of muddy water and broken glass. An old rusty coffee can filled with kitty litter holds partially coated mandrels upright while they dry and looks like an old dead forest of steel.
My workbench is higher than a table and requires me to sit on a stool. Mine is an old black plastic covered stool like the ones you find in a small town garage. This stool swivels, but also rocks a bit as both the legs and the concrete floor beneath are uneven. This rickety throne acts like a pivot of action and gives me the agility to maneuver as necessary while pulling hot glass strings or reaching for a new cold rod. From this perch, I can easily reach both my rack of glass rods and my kiln.
The rack of glass rods sits behind me on a stack of old metal filing cabinets. Behind me, it remains convenient but not distracting. This rack was crudely, yet quite effectively, handmade for me by my husband. An old kitchen cabinet without a door holds twelve inch long pieces of PVC pipe all stacked together like a plastic honeycomb. Each pipe holds a different color or type of glass rod giving the rack a rainbow-like appearance. Old photos of beads that I have made hang at odd angles on the side of this cabinet acting as signposts to any who may peer through the glass door and wonder what occurs here.
To the left of my stool, in front of the large picture window, sits my kiln. It sits upon a work table that has been lovingly confiscated from my husband because its legs are easily adjustable. This particular kiln is made of layers that can be removed to change the size of the kiln. The most notable part of the kiln are the bright blue computer on the side, which allows for exacting temperatures and specific heating programs to be run, and the crude looking fabric flaps on the bottom layer. These now fraying flaps allow me to insert rods of freshly made hot glass beads with just one swivel of my stool. The heat from the kiln, combined with that of the torch, quickly heats up the tiny corner allowing me to feel even more at home within this creative bubble of space.
In my studio, I am comfortably segregated from the outside world. I am free to awaken my muse and release her. I can be alone with my thoughts, free to let my mind wander at its will. In this place, I answer only to myself, and have no obligations outside of the flame.
