Contemporary Canadian Glass

by Brad Copping

I did a lot of thinking about the Glass Art Association of Canada before I stepped up as president; what it means, what it can be, and this upcoming conference in Montreal has got me thinking about the community part of that again.

This is a community of people who have a passion involving glass, (a community which is represented by the material and not the passion) which is separated by such large distances that it is only at events like this conference that we are able to physically get together.   They may not be part of the very small community that exists around us as we go about our ‘day to day’, but then that might be a good thing.  I guess what I’m getting at is that we are all a part of different communities and they vary greatly in size and intensity, from the most intimate one, all under the same roof; to the one around a particular glass furnace, set of kilns, or a particular gallery (or coffee shop or bar or hardware store); to the ones that connect us with people we rarely see, but we relate to because of our ruling passions.   We are social beings who often need intense privacy.  Living rural allows me that privacy, but sometimes it makes me a little squirrelly and I need to connect with people who understand the passion, who are gripped by their own version of it, and who somehow, like myself, have used glass to mediate that passion.

Our 2010 Montreal Conference, Transparent Transformation/Transformation Transparente, brings together 3 Canadian artists who have used glass in making their work, and all of them have been awarded Canada’s highest official honour for following their passions.  I took this opportunity to ask Peter Powning, our key note speaker, Kevin Lockau, this year’s laureate of the GAAC Life time Achievement Award, and Ione Thorkelsson, the recipient of the 2010 Saidye Bronfman Award, for their thoughts about community and what it has meant to them.

Peter Powning

The photo of Peter in his studio was created by Greg Klassen and is shown here with his kind permission.

I live in many overlapping communities starting with “the community of one”, that overactive cast of characters in my head vying for attention.  As a rural artist I don’t have a community of fellow practitioners that I see regularly.  Events like conferences and symposia are gatherings of the tribe that provides a chance to maintain friendships, stimulate the creative juices and top up on technical knowledge.  I get a nice sense of belonging at these events where we all have so much in common.  There is a generosity of spirit, mutual respect and understanding as well as a readiness to have a good time that I really value.

The other communities that I rely on are family, our rural hamlet, and a huge range of local and scattered friends.  Our local pub, 16 kilometers away in the county market town of Sussex is another essential community in my life.  Late Friday afternoon people from the hinterland gather to have a pint or two of local brew, swap yarns and laugh at and with each other.  It’s a great way to wind down.

I now also seem to have an internet community that consists of a motley array of old friends and new, some of them I’ve never laid eyes on.  I keep in touch with people I only see at SOFA who live in Australia, England, California etc.  The internet provides a way to keep in touch with friends is a real benefit despite its myriad other distractions.

I’ve wasted a lot of time in my life wishing for the perfect community where all the great people I know would come together and do things right.  I think I’ve come to realize that no such place can exist and that many friendships rely on distance to make them work.  I think it’s also important to be rubbing up against people with diverse opinions, occupations and abilities.  Valuing the communities that we’ve got can be a chore, but I’ve found that being engaged with them gives me a deeper understanding of who I am and the value of belonging.

Kevin Lockau

Kevin Lockau on the edge of Georgian Bay

Communities define who I am.  There was the Sheridan community, the community of Bancroft, my neighbours and the community of family.  When talking gardening or the weather or next winter’s wood with my neighbours, I feel part of that community.  I am a local.  That is my existence at that moment defined.  When I am carving stone, or talking to other carvers, I am being defined by that activity not only by others but also by myself.  The communities are circles, defined areas and they overlap for sure, but whom I see myself as at this moment is related to the circle that I am walking in and the circles, which overlap it.

I think the Sheridan glass community was a very defining and consuming one, and eventually I needed an escape to privacy (and a reality check).  I have always had it in my mind to be less attached to the material than for a passion for making.  The technical shop talk so easily a badge of the blower or studio owner was never one that I could contribute to or want to partake in.  As a contrast, the stone sculptors I have associated with seldom if ever held court on technical matters. Perhaps this is the nature of the beast.  I keep thinking of Erwin Eisch’s comment about his art being in painting on glass because his family did it, the town factory survived on it, and this is what one did.  Most of us have the options presented by a full palette of materials to give expression.  I am discovering now just how wide ranging it actually is.

I find it helpful at times to understand the world by looking at society as a herd of grazing animals, a really large herd, constantly on the move, heads down.  And the artist is often the outsider – on the edge of the herd and the herd mentality.  The important idea in this metaphor is that from the edge, with some distance, the view of the herd dynamic is clearer and sometimes is understandable.  As well, you have an unobstructed view of the horizon’s potential.  While you can laugh off most irrelevant stampedes, being on the outside of the herd does leave you feeling vulnerable and solitary.  You seek autonomy, but the herd has its pull, its safety, and instinct tells the social animal to keep close.   However, you chose your distance, hone your survival skills, and see yourself as a visionary grazer.  Sometimes the outsider finds him or herself in a good grazing area, or standing where there is an especially stunning vantage point, and the herd envelops.  For the outsider, this is overwhelming, and she has to find the edge again, re-establish the comfort between the outer and inner edges.  In realizing that some of the herd was aware of her all along, that all herds produce edge animals or sentinels, and that they are a necessary part of the constantly changing and dynamic herd you can see that in all communities there is an important structure of support as well.  One does not feel alone struggling in the wilderness.  As social animals the need for that structure can sustain the herd.  And as always in a herd there are those that see themselves on the edge of it.

Ione Thorkelsson

I have always felt that I live on the periphery of many communities. Even in the most literal sense, I live on an escarpment, which is the dividing line between a French speaking community up the hill to the west and an English speaking community at the base of the escarpment to the east.  I am at home in both communities, but in both cases my place is on the edge not at the centre. Similarly I am at the edge of the Manitoba craft community.  The Manitoba Craft Council itself, of which I was a founding member in the early 70s, has always had to struggle to keep its centre, being made up of many scattered and independent crafts people.  I also find a sense of community with the multifarious Winnipeg/Manitoba visual arts scene which itself is driven by an odd but fertile creative dynamic that I suppose must also have something to do with a sense being distant from the centre.

So, in general, I am perfectly comfortable with my position relative to the Canadian glass community: being in the centre geographically, but for all practical purposes, being on the periphery.  This can be, in fact, a very advantageous place to find oneself.  I can visit as sort of a distant cousin in any of these communities.  Generally I am welcomed, sometimes I am only vaguely recognized, but I am able to gain access if only for a short time. From my first glass blowing workshop at Sheridan (taught by Clark Guettel, with Norman Faulkner as technician), I acquired contacts east and west. Back then, contact was by phone or letter (a memorable handwritten letter from Norman with sketches was the basis for my first glass furnace design). Now, with the internet, life on the periphery has become much, much easier. Glass, as you well know, has never been an easy material to work with and perhaps because of that it has attracted technically adventurous people. It is still evolving and there is always new information, new materials, and new techniques to work out. The internet, coupled with the openness of the Canadian glass community, keeps information available to me.

Part of Norman Faulkner's 1974 letter to Ione Thorkelsson

For Norman Faulkner’s complete letter follow this link.

There is however one major disadvantage to living on the periphery: not having answers to the questions you never thought to ask (the Rumsfeldian ‘unknown unknowns‘). Consequently, my techniques end up being rather unorthodox because I don’t actually see these things being done and no one who uses these techniques sees me work; so I fill in the blanks as best I can and hope for the best. It sometimes takes a long time to get results, and occasionally I discover something useful.

I have learned to live with and take advantage of life outside the known world. When I first decided to set up a studio here one of my main reasons was this very distance. I knew that whenever my muses speak to me, they whisper very quietly. I need quiet time and quiet space to hear them. That part seems to work for me, but having chosen a technically difficult material I still need the generosity of many communities to survive.