Bird's Nest Series or Never Refuse to Re-Fuse

​Every finished piece of art leaves detritus in its wake.
Abandoned canvases turned toward the wall. Clay sculptures cracked in the kiln. Sterling silver reduced to a puddle beneath the torch. Hopeful beginnings, countless hours, costly materials…

As artist we eventually learn. Failure isn't waste. It's simply the cost of tuition.

For every fused glass platter I complete, there's a pile of offcuts, slivers, shards, and odd little shapes left behind. It's much like sewing. Once a garment is cut from the fabric, scraps and selvage remain. Once upon a time, I repurposed those as clothes for my dolls.
Which started a 'pattern'.
I've collected 'leftovers' ever since.

Glass artists have an advantage.
The medium invites second chances.
​Thanks to my offcuts, slivers, shards, and odd little shapes… 

​I call them the Bird's Nest Series because that's essentially how they're constructed. Like a magpie gathering twigs, feathers, string, and whatever else catches its eye, I layer dozens of unrelated fragments into a loose, seemingly chaotic pile. ​

​Then comes the magic.

​The stack is heated slowly in the kiln until it reaches nearly 1,500°F. At that temperature the glass begins to soften—not enough to lose its individual character, but enough for neighboring pieces to connect. Glass artists call this a tack fuse. The fragments remain distinct, preserving their textures, edges, and those wonderful lace-like openings, while becoming one solid piece.
At nearly 1,500 degrees, hundreds of unrelated fragments stop thinking of themselves as scraps and begin behaving like a community. Edges soften. Colors mingle. Negative spaces emerge.

After cooling—slowly and deliberately over many hours to relieve internal stress—the piece returns to the kiln for a second firing. This time, it rests on a ceramic mold and is heated to around 1,200–1,250°F, just enough to let gravity do the work. Over the course of another firing cycle, the glass slumps into the mold, while retaining all of its airy complexity.The spaces where there isn't glass become just as important as the places where there is. Light streams through the openings, changing the piece throughout the day. The absence becomes part of the design.

​

​My dear friend and mentor Dianne van der Carr—known affectionately in our circle as Glass Guru / Silica Sensei—has a saying:
"Never refuse to re-(f)use."

​Words which caused me to ponder: aren’t, sometimes, the most beautiful things born from leftovers, false starts, broken plans, and fragments that seemed to have outlived their ​usefulness?