Oh let's go, let's strike a light/ We're gonna blow like dynamite/ I don't care if it takes all night/ Gonna set this town alight
--Def Leppard, Rock of Ages, off the 1983 album Pyromania
One of my earliest memories is of starting a fire with small white squares of paper in a candle burning on a table that was left unattended. Well, the memory isnt so much of starting the fire as it is of burning myself, my little fingers. I was 3 years old. I got spanked on my ass with a brush. I remember that, too, and wishing my mom had grabbed one that didnt hurt so much.
Its funny the way memory works. Id never recalled this incident until one day I saw my cat Mee Grob (she was named after Thai food) jump onto a ledge right above a candle and there was that point like in a cartoon, the smoke coming out from under her before she realized oh shit Im on fire and with a yelp she jumped off the ledge before I could get to her to save her. I never put candles on ledges after that, and thankfully her fur kept her from getting burned. But it got me thinking about fire and how for me, fire and art have always been intertwined.
I was a bit of a pyromaniac as a kid and this may sound high-minded or revisionist, but I do think that for me essentially it was art-making I was always very safe with fire, and did it in a very controlled way and with the exception of a few times (when I almost tore my hand off or the day I lost my eyebrows) I was really safe. I loved seeing things burn and making my own fireworks out of hollowed out roman candles mixed with gunpowder and crushed-up Estes model rocket engines.
I also loved making model rockets and it took me years to figure out it had more than a little to do with the smell, that I go thigh off the fumes of the glue and paint, putting these things together in my room or the garage.
Fire was like the most beautiful thing, though. I loved it when you poured gas on a tennis ball then kicked the ball, the poooof of smoke and noxious fumes and gorgeous fire. I loved feeling like I was in control of something much greater than me, something that could kill me if I werent more careful.
Years later, in college, it took one spark of the oxy-acetylene torch to realize how much I'd missed fire and it was like falling back in love with someone after years apart. I used to basically draw in thin sheets of metal with the torch, like a paintbrush of destruction. Finally the art and the fire were merged, for me, for reals. I haven't used a torch in years but I and plan to again very soon -- it's kinda complicated and expensive and requires a safe place to do it in...
There are just too many damn wonderful things to do in life and not enough time to do them in have I complained about that to you yet??
--Def Leppard, Rock of Ages, off the 1983 album Pyromania
One of my earliest memories is of starting a fire with small white squares of paper in a candle burning on a table that was left unattended. Well, the memory isnt so much of starting the fire as it is of burning myself, my little fingers. I was 3 years old. I got spanked on my ass with a brush. I remember that, too, and wishing my mom had grabbed one that didnt hurt so much.
Its funny the way memory works. Id never recalled this incident until one day I saw my cat Mee Grob (she was named after Thai food) jump onto a ledge right above a candle and there was that point like in a cartoon, the smoke coming out from under her before she realized oh shit Im on fire and with a yelp she jumped off the ledge before I could get to her to save her. I never put candles on ledges after that, and thankfully her fur kept her from getting burned. But it got me thinking about fire and how for me, fire and art have always been intertwined.
I was a bit of a pyromaniac as a kid and this may sound high-minded or revisionist, but I do think that for me essentially it was art-making I was always very safe with fire, and did it in a very controlled way and with the exception of a few times (when I almost tore my hand off or the day I lost my eyebrows) I was really safe. I loved seeing things burn and making my own fireworks out of hollowed out roman candles mixed with gunpowder and crushed-up Estes model rocket engines.
I also loved making model rockets and it took me years to figure out it had more than a little to do with the smell, that I go thigh off the fumes of the glue and paint, putting these things together in my room or the garage.
Fire was like the most beautiful thing, though. I loved it when you poured gas on a tennis ball then kicked the ball, the poooof of smoke and noxious fumes and gorgeous fire. I loved feeling like I was in control of something much greater than me, something that could kill me if I werent more careful.
Years later, in college, it took one spark of the oxy-acetylene torch to realize how much I'd missed fire and it was like falling back in love with someone after years apart. I used to basically draw in thin sheets of metal with the torch, like a paintbrush of destruction. Finally the art and the fire were merged, for me, for reals. I haven't used a torch in years but I and plan to again very soon -- it's kinda complicated and expensive and requires a safe place to do it in...
There are just too many damn wonderful things to do in life and not enough time to do them in have I complained about that to you yet??
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yay-
But I will let you know when anything goes up anywhere.