Compass: a Jesuit Journal - November/December 1993
The Communities in our Midst
Like Glass, Fragile Yet Durable
At the end of each day, Alexander's voice booms through our vast studio space: "Good night, everybody!" His rich Russian accent and magnanimous spirit make this a favourite part of my day. It is a tangible indication that our shared studio is a "community" - even on days when I've not been so sure.
"We" are six artists and several assistants, all working in various forms of glass, who share space and equipment in a cavernous turn-of-the-century factory. This may sound romantic, but the reality is not always so easy to live with. Sharing studio space inevitably has its stresses and tensions. Add to this the noise, dust and lack of privacy we deal with daily, and it becomes clear that we all make considerable sacrifices to stay together.
We were originally brought together by economic necessity; our medium requires substantial work space and expensive equipment. Yet, within our common working space, we have become a community. How has this happened? The answer in our case is not in a common artistic philosophy or religious belief, but rather in some of the trials and triumphs we share and in the smaller details of our days.
There is no such thing as a regular schedule at our studio. At a given time, any or all of us may be out visiting a site, giving a presentation, buying materials or negotiating with a gallery director. But by looking at a recent day, one can get an idea of the rhythms of our common work place. John, my assistant, has arrived first, bicycling through second-floor hall- ways and into the studio. He puts on coffee and gets the phone messages. As Michael arrives, the studio comes to life with the sounds of glass work. At first it is just the gentle tapping of glass being cut.
Eve and Tony and I appear, and Alexander enters with a resounding "Hello everybody." The day's noises multiply; the sandblaster hums, the compressor rattles floor and walls, grinding wheels whir and scrape, and sheets of glass ring against each other as they are moved and jostled. The "music machine" belts out Van Morrison, our four different phone lines ring and my fax machine pulls into action.
As the day continues, my colleagues' paths cross in many ways. Someone needs a tool or a sheet of glass of a particular colour or texture. We arrange the sharing of equipment, celebrate a birthday lunch together, lend a hand where needed, and otherwise meet and discuss and disagree like any group of people at work. And, as in any group, we play the roles into which we have grown over the years - politician, peacemaker, firebrand, inventor and so on.
All of the noise and activity could lead to a sense of community, but they could just as easily lead to a sense of frustration. In he hubbub of constant interruptions, there is precious little space for the reflection and contemplation necessary for inspired design work. As well, I am sometimes amazed at how quickly our cohesion can fragment over a misunderstanding or an imagined slight. Within our small group, we have very few tools or processes, other than our own good will, for dealing with such difficulties and challenges.
Some days, when the compressor is unbearably loud, and all the phones are ringing, and the grinders and sandblasting make concentration impossible, I long for my own studio, where I can create my windows in peace. It sounds perfect - a space that is separate, clean, quiet and completely under my own control. But then my mind turns to the things that would be lacking, and I realize that this dream doesn't hold perfect happiness. In thinking about what I would miss, I begin to understand what really makes us a community.
I would begin by missing the energy and camaraderie that bind us, even as we work on separate projects. Whether we are marvelling at one another's accomplishments, sharing a running joke or having a quick lunch together there is something that goes beyond common space and work.
Some of this is related to the material we work with. Under the surface of the easygoing artists' studio is the tension and seriousness of working with an unpredictable, temperamental and occasionally dangerous material. There is a true respect and love for our chosen medium, and somehow that binds us. We are also bound by our talents and our temperaments. We have chosen an art form that is fragile and physically demanding. It makes sense for us to work together, rather than in the solitary world of fine art. We share a sense of being in the larger community of artists, both past and present. The ongoing community provides us with a historical context - a continuity going back thousands of years. The contemporary community touches our studio regularly with visits, calls and invitations to openings. From this community we gain support, creativity, controversy and endless energy.
Community is a part of our studio, infusing even the quiet times. I often return in the evening, when I can best find the serenity to plan and design, and to contemplate. I find Tony working too, and the chaotic hubbub of the studio's daytime activity is replaced by an unspoken comradeship as we work on our separate projects late into the night, and sometimes into the early hours of the morning.
In a society moving towards decentralization with more and more people working at home in self-contained bubbles, our studio represents the artist/craftsperson's response. The things we share are an affirmation of the power of community to enhance creativity. As Alexander booms his goodbye, I see once more the unique quality that our small community shares with the material we shape. Like glass, it is remarkably fragile, but capable of great durability.
