Here’s another view of the latest one:
It’s called “how bees work.” I think I might have mentioned that it surprised me. I didn’t see it coming. It was a little like being carjacked.
Anyway, it demanded that I use this antique eggbeater, which was left behind in one of the failed restaurants in the Copeland Block. The eggbeater reminded me of a dream I had a long time ago. In the dream I saw a swarm of bees with transparent abdomens, and inside their abdomens were tiny eggbeaters. “Can I have a stinger?” the force behind the sculpture asked. How could I say no?
I’m never sure how much to say about what a particular sculpture represents to me. I know that people are often curious. I also know that I don’t want to deprive them of the opportunity to make their own meaning of it. I heard a story about this piece resonating with someone while it was at the photographer’s studio in a way that I never would have imagined because it’s so far from my own experience. I’d really love for people to weigh in on this issue if they have opinions.
This piece is an ending of sorts. I’m not sure exactly how to explain it. It’s like an exclamation point on the end of a sentence. Someone who saw it when it was freshly finished said that they had a sense of a soap bubble stretching and stretching and finally breaking apart into two separate bubbles.
I’m a long way from being done with wire sculptures about living in a female body, and I suppose I could get carjacked again by another piece of my past, but the ideas in my queue are all based on a plaster cast of my own 45-year-old torso. The work I’m planning now is about the present, about being middle-aged. It feels incredibly vulnerable to be putting my own shape on display like that. It feels vulnerable to even talk about it. It also feels necessary.