How do you HEAT it?
Do ANIMALS get in?
What do you do when it SNOWS?
When you decide to build a freestanding cabin made entirely of stained glass, you’re going to field some questions about practicality.
What about HAIL???
Well, the problem’s actually not the hail, it’s the pinecones. My little glass cabin nestles under the boughs of an 80-foot Norway spruce, which drops droves of pinecones the size of squirrels. I must admit: When the wind gets blowing, I, too, have questions about the practicality of building a cabin studio entirely out of stained glass.
Truly, my little creative haven is IMPRACTICAL in many wonderful ways. It puts me out there in the middle of what inspires me. The fallen pinecones surround the cabin like a blanket, poked through with ferns and wildflowers. The rough-hewn wood staircase up to the door invites the growth of moss and mushrooms. Inside, the spiders are relentless, constantly spinning webs upon the cedar-branch rafters and birch-limb pillars. I’ve honored them with their own stained glass window — a magnified lattice of gossamer adorned with lenses of dew that throw rainbows when the light hits just right.
The cabin is delightfully not hermetically sealed off from outside, from nature. When mice set up home in the drawers of my writing desk, I simply relocate them into the woods with a silent apology. As I loll inside and sketch, or just drift, I might hear the peepers begin to peep in spring — or be startled by the bears ambling by in autumn. I love the boisterous company of the busy wrens who nest each year atop the cabin’s peak.
The creation of a space where I can make art is not a matter of practicality. An important part of my work as a stained glass artist is doing NOTHING. It’s time spent sitting, gazing out a window, doodling in a sketchbook, thinking things through, or not thinking at all.
It’s walking, seeking and stumbling on and off paths; almost tripping over a trove of morel mushrooms when the dogwood blooms, or being startled by a new fawn camouflaged by the sunlight dappling through the leaves above. It’s drifting off in a cozy stained glass cabin when I had intended to be responding to emails; falling asleep to fireflies and waking to the early morning sun that sends me down to the lake for a swim. None of this is exactly practical.
Yet the cabin has become so important to me in practical ways, too. Most of my work both originates and concludes in there. Inside, you’ll find stacks of books that I pore over — tomes of poems, artwork, nature photography, and any other inspirations that I’m currently obsessed with. On the floor, you’ll find crumbs of erasers that result from my initial brainstorming, and designing and redesigning. Every window begins with a sketch, then turns into a drawing and finally turns into a “cartoon” (the final pattern).
After the glass has been cut according to this cartoon, the cabin’s beautiful solitude is perfect for foiling and burnishing the glass pieces while cuddled up under a blanket. The cabin also serves as a wonderful backdrop in my photographs of finished projects when the sun is in just the right spot.
Changes and additions to my studio space reflect my evolution as an artist. Most of 2021 was devoted to my largest project to date, a 197-square-feet installation for the Maker’s Mark Distillery in Loretto, Kentucky. A project this size required me — for the first time in my career — to hire several assistant artists, and to find work space where they could solder and polish. But as I explored nearby spaces for lease, I realized how important my intimate home studio is to my workflow, so I decided to repurpose our garage for the project.
Once a dust-filled storage spot, cluttered up the walls and into the rafters, this space could be upgraded to an airy, light-filled studio annex. It would allow me to continue working the artist’s “any hour of the day” schedule that my home studio fosters, while providing non-encroaching space for my assistants. So, I rented a storage unit, emptied everything out of the garage, painted the interior a warm white, and created a roomy studio with adjustable workbenches. Best of all, I tore out the old garage door and replaced it with a custom-built steel French door constructed to the same specifications (20-inch square glass panels) as the large commission.
Not only would this provide lots of natural light whether open or closed, but it would also allow me to place 12 stained glass panels at a time (out of a total of 65) to check for continuity. I now have such fond memories of sharing time with those awesome artists, with the doors swung wide open during beautiful weather. These days, I still look forward to working in this space.
The very acts of creating the stained glass cabin and the garage studio space have changed the nature of the artwork that I create.
Once the Maker’s Mark project was completed, I filled the empty garage door with a project created JUST FOR ME — the Alpine Posy. It’s a bouquet of oversized stained glass feathers, to which I’ve soldered little vases and beakers that can be filled with specimens — flowers, feathers, pebbles and other artifacts — that I find on my adventures. More publicly, the social media attention of the cabin has brought clients who commission me based on the themes found in its panels.
Additionally, I’ve been graced by a group of benefactors who initially helped me financially to construct the cabin, and now help me to maintain it (as nature inevitably gnaws away) through my Patreon account. I’ve had fun trying to show gratitude to these patrons, creating prints, stickers, sketches and patterns of my artwork exclusively for them.
My studio and my artwork continue to evolve. I’ve packed away the E-Z UP tent that protected me during summers of craft shows. I’ve shuttered the successful Etsy jewelry store that provided much of my income back when the site was a new outlet for handcrafters. I’ve made room for the lights, cameras and tripods that I use to maintain a rich Instagram presence. I’ve added a few computer screens that I use in writing such projects as my instructional book, Kicking Glass. I’ve invested in oversized printers and scanners for the reproducing of the patterns that I sell to other crafters on Etsy.
I’ve indulged in commissions that challenge me, and I’ve turned away from projects that don’t align with my vision and pace. This evolution has allowed me to endure as an artist.
Ultimately, though, it’s my little cabin that both inspires and manifests my voice. The rhythms of this singular plot of land — cycles of ebb and flow, hustle and idleness — that I see through the cabin’s windows. The comfort of creating something just for me. The realization of “my place,” where I can work — or not work.
