Light Artist looking for life preserver

By HARRISON HEYL

I tend to go overboard about things.

It started when I was 8 years old. I’d go to the neighborhood hobby shop, where models of every conceivable aircraft, watercraft, car, truck and train were stacked from floor to ceiling. Around the store were many examples of completed models, which tended to get one’s juices flowing and eager to take on a particularly ambitious project.

So instead of starting small with my very first model — say, a snap-together Chevy — I purchased a replica of an 18th century four-masted sailing schooner that had more pieces than a modern automobile. Every joist, every piece of tackle no matter how minor in function, every blessed jib was perfectly replicated in maddening detail. When I got it home, I was unable to make sense of the directions written in Latin and half-heartedly tried to assemble the ship without the directions, which is like a third-grader trying to overhaul the transmission of an aircraft carrier without instructions of any sort. Soon the box and the many cursed little pieces wound up at the thrift store, where it would no doubt torment some other child to the brink of madness, if not beyond to the Unabomber stage.

The fact that I have earned my yellow belt in the martial art of Tae Kwon Do three times without progressing any further eloquently illustrates my tendency to romanticize the fruits of my ambitions, only to quickly lose steam and completely drop the endeavor in question.

A couple of years ago, I signed up for a pottery class at UCSB. Before I’d taken a single class, I’d purchased a beret and was claiming to be a professional potter, that molding the clay of the earth with my bare hands into exquisite works of art was my life’s purpose, my raison d’être. I gave my two weeks notice to my employer before taking even one class, certain that my life as An Artist could wait no longer. I bought a potter’s wheel and a glazing kiln costing many thousands of dollars and weighing close to two tons.

In an unfortunate turn of events, I actually attended the first class, which dampened my enthusiasm considerably. I found pottery to be a regrettably untidy form of art, and it apparently takes quite a bit of practice to become any good at it. After two classes, I dropped pottery entirely. However, I was able to produce a pair of grotesque ashtrays in that time, and I made a point of taking up smoking so they wouldn’t go to waste. So I consider the whole affair time well-spent in that regard.

What brings this topic to mind is my latest “project,” inspired by a recent trip to Paris and the holiday season. As I strolled along the winding streets of the Monmartre district, I passed a shop beaming with light. The windows shone with festive lamps ingeniously created out of delicate tissue paper and wire. It inspired me to become a Light Artist — a term I have coined and to which I am securing the trademark rights.

For my first objet d’art I bought twinkly lights and chicken-wire, which I intended to fashion into the likeness of a Christmas tree. The lights were to go inside of this chicken-wire sculpture, and the outside was to be adorned with delicate evergreen tissue paper interspersed with circles of merry colors representing ornaments. When turned on, this sculpture was intended to glow and sparkle like the Northern Lights, a man-made wonder of the world blazing an unmistakable message like a neon sign in the night: “Artistic Genius Present. Open 24 Hours.” After creating the first piece for my personal Artist’s Den, I would produce many more and sell them at high prices amid much critical acclaim. But I caught a terrible cold, and with the social obligations of the holidays and the obligatory workweek, well, let’s just say it’s not going to happen by Christmas of any year. Which brings me to my main point:

Does anyone need a Tae Kwon Do uniform with three yellow belts, a glazing kiln, a potter’s wheel or several hundred yards of chicken-wire? They would make wonderful gifts for the holidays, and it would be hard to beat the reasonable prices I’ve attached to these virtually unused items. Please contact me if interested.

Harrison Heyl is a frequent Beacon contributor. If you’re interested in picking up any of his stuff — cheap — e-mail him via opinion@scbeacon.com.