Have you ever been in a church and been amazed at the craftsmanship behind a stained glass window? Try working with stained glass, and that admiration will triple. One of the many artsy things on my list is stained glass, and being an avid bug man, the obvious choice was to make a beetle.
I decided to post in a local artist’s Facebook group, just to ask if there is anybody around who works with stained glass. See, what I’ve come to realise while working on ✓ Project Bucket List is that if you don’t ask, you don’t get. Two years ago, I’d’ve panicked about the idea of asking for help – it would have counted as some sort of failure.
Within a couple of hours, a few artists and artisans had popped up in the comments, all happy to help and lend a hand. It’s hard to stay cynical when you speak to someone about what makes them smile. People love sharing what they’re passionate about, and if you just ask, quite often you’ll be met with positive enthusiasm.
Enter Helen Stevenson. As I walk into her studio for the first time, canvases full of colour are stacked up against the walls, and tables are piled with materials and tools. Vibrant flashes of colour jump out at every angle, and swatches of tools for different mediums fill every surface available.
“My studio is very much like the inside of my head,” laughs Helen, gesturing at the chaos.
We talk about the bucket list, and about my Stone Pine Art Bursary (go and have a look if you’re an artist, it’s for you), and we agree that in exchange for Helen teaching me how to work with stained glass, I’ll develop a website and help her get her art out there. And so, out comes a bag of tools, a box full of glass, and an afternoon ready to make a glass bug.
Stained glass is an interesting medium. You’re at the whim of the material, so as we sketch out stag beetles on a bit of paper, Helen points out certain points that will be weak. Essentially, anything that could look like a hinge is a no-go; you’re looking for corners that connect various pieces, and the more they all slot in together, the better.
Then we sift through the box of glass, looking for the perfect colour. We found this beautiful yellow with an iridescent sheen and got to work, drawing out the shapes onto the material.
The other thing is that it’s very difficult to make intricate curved cuts on glass. The bulk of the work is done in large sweeping lines, which are later shaped on the grinder. It’s quite meditative to do, really. Score. Tap. The crack runs where you asked it to – mostly. Every time I score the glass and break it apart, I feel like it’s going to splinter everywhere and leave a large “fuck up” shaped cut through the glass. There are a few moments when the glass splits a little too far in one direction, but nothing goes so wrong that it can’t be fixed.
As we work on the beetle, under Helen’s watchful eye, we get to talking, and Helen opens up about her career as an artist. About how she was a member at Harrington Mill Studios for 15 years, a vibrant community of artists who exhibited all around the world. As time ticked on and the cost of living increased, Helen was now on a job search. As many artists have found, when money gets tight, the first things that get cut are the arts.
Helen then reveals that she’s considering starting stained glass lessons. I’m immediately on board with the idea. A friend of mine used to say that I’m like a salesperson when it comes to enabling people. If someone wants to do something, they’ll get a swift “shit yeah, do it” from yours truly.
And so, we start discussing how she’d set up a class, what she’d charge, how to plan it, how to run it, what to say, etc. All the while, we’re coating individual pieces with a copper ribbon, ready to solder together. It’s one of those weird moments where my experience in business gets to rear its little capitalist head. I often say that I live vicariously through artist friends. I get to stand at the sides shouting commercial-sounding words, and they get to do the real art – then we all high-five at the end.
As we solder the last parts of the beetle, protecting its shape with a beautiful blue backdrop, Helen tells me the truth underneath the practicalities. The scary part of the whole idea is standing in front of people and saying “I know enough to teach you”. It’s anxiety-inducing – what if it goes wrong?
I know that fear well – slightly different flavour, but very much the same animal. You catastrophise and rationalise reasons why you shouldn’t do something. You imagine worst-case scenarios, and before you even realise, you don’t even need to imagine the scenarios; just the idea of doing something is enough to trigger a fear response. You guard yourself so you can’t fail in public. What if they don’t like the class? What if nobody books on? What if the glass breaks?
I find myself saying the words I wish I’d heard years ago – Just get the first one done, get it out of your system as quickly as possible. Rip the plaster off and then learn, and move on to the next one. Helen laughs, and then she goes quiet, like something has clicked into place.
When we’re finally done, and we lift the beetle to an overhead light, the colours are more vibrant than I could have ever imagined. It’s like the whole thing glows, and the iridescence catches at different angles. It looks amazing!
Helen says she believes in serendipity and that we met at the right time. There’s a pause of silence, and I can feel my old reflex kicking in, the one that makes me want to minimise the moment. But this is the point I’m trying to get to, helping eachother out is how things get made. One of the biggest things that the list has granted me the ability to do is ask for help.
As I’m writing this, the stained glass beetle is in the window to my left, backlit by a beautiful whisper of winter sun through the clouds, and it reminds me of a tiny entomological church. This is going to act as my little reminder that I shouldn’t always try to do things alone – sometimes, there’s a friend to be found.
