glass The UrbanGlass Art Quarterly
Alex Bernstein Finds His Way The Barry Art Museum Evolves Elliot Walker Sculpts the Exquisite Dale Chihuly Alters Experience COVER
Jim Hodges: A Subterranean Tapestry
No. 163. Summer 2021
Alex Gabriel Bernstein, Blue Ridge (with artist shown), 2018. Cast and cut borosilicate glass, fused steel. H 30, W 55, D 16 in. PHOTO: STEVE MANN COURTESY: THE ARTIST
contents No. 163. Summer 2021 departments
features
6
editor’s letter
8
h ourglass Dante Marioni discusses his newest work in
BY ANDREW PAGE
which he shatters traditional Venetian cane patterns and reassembles them into intricate intersecting fields; the film Lino Tagliapietra: The Making of a Maestro presents this icon of glass art in his own words and on his own terms; the Glass Impact coalition’s online fundraiser celebrates diverse voices in glass and seeks support to sustain outreach; In Memoriam: remembering research scientist Robert Brill (1929–2021), who led The Corning Museum back from the devastation of the 1972 flood
52 r eviews Norwood Viviano at Heller Gallery, New York;
Jeanne Reynal at Eric Firestone Gallery, New York; Gene Koss at Arthur Roger Gallery, New Orleans; neon group exhibition at Pittsburgh Glass Center, Pittsburgh; and a book review of Objects USA: 2020 by R & Company, New York
61 u rbanglass news An Educational Partnership Grows
16 “Love” Has a Lot to Do with It
26 Sparks Fly
BY TINA OLDKNOW
emembering collector, philanthropist, and tireless glass-art R advocate Daniel Greenberg (1942–2021)
BY ALEXANDER CASTRO
n accidental discovery that hot slivers of steel will embed A themselves in glass gave iconoclastic artist Alex Gabriel Bernstein his defining technique and crystalized his unorthodox approach to glass sculpture.
34 The New Museum (in Norfolk)
BY BENJAMIN WRIGHT
ess than three years since opening, the Barry Art Museum L brings a new perspective to its expanding collections as Charlotte Potter Kasic takes the director’s reins from Jutta-Annette Page.
40 A Sculptor with Consummate Skill
BY EMMA PARK
ith his triumph in the second season of Blown Away, W Elliot Walker proved his technical mastery, yet the British glassblower refuses to make functional glass.
in Brooklyn
64 r eflection
BY ANDREW PAGE
ontemporary artist Jim Hodges, who seeks “liveness” in C his emotionally charged works, is drawn to glass for its active nature. Glass spoke to Hodges about art as performance, the power of mirror, and what it means to have a permanent installation in the city that nurtured his career.
46 The Interventionist
BY ELEANOR HEARTNEY
I n an excerpt from Eleanor Heartney’s essay in the newly published book Chihuly and Architecture (Abrams, 2021), we learn how Dale Chihuly transforms public spaces.
ON THE COVER Jim Hodges, I dreamed a world and called it Love, 2020; commissioned by MTA Arts & Design for NYC Transit Grand Central–42 St Station. © JIM HODGES. PHOTO: FELIPE FONTECILLA. COURTESY: THE ARTIST AND GLADSTONE GALLERY, NEW YORK AND BRUSSELS
Sparks Fly
An accidental discovery that hot slivers of steel will embed themselves in glass gave iconoclastic artist Alex Bernstein his defining technique and crystalized his unorthodox approach to glass sculpture. BY ALEXANDER CASTRO
A 1987 photo of the budding artist flameworking in the Celo, North Carolina, studio of his artist parents, William and Katherine Bernstein. PHOTO: ELIZABETH PANNEL
The artist “shooting steel” (also known as Bernsteining) in his studio. COURTESY: THE ARTIST
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Alex Bernstein is at his parents’ house for winter break. A graduate student at Rochester Institute of Technology, he’s in the family hot shop. His parents are also glass artists, and while they have a furnace on site, it’s turned off at the moment. So Bernstein— a relentless technician, and maybe a bit of a perfectionist—decides to prepare for an upcoming class in metalworking. He tries to weld two pieces of metal, but an unsightly bump emerges. Bernstein takes a grinder to his mistake, sending showers of sparks in every direction. Later, cleaning up the mess, Bernstein notices one of his dad’s sculptures sitting on the worktable. A witness to his welding experiment, it’s now covered in an acne of gray specks. Its clear, sandblasted surface has been embedded with tiny bits of steel. Sometime after winter break (and an apology to his dad), Bernstein wondered if he could intentionally meld steel and glass the same way—by melting sparks into the glass itself. His dad was skeptical. “Being the good son I am, I ignored his good advice. I took one of my nicest sculptures and started grinding steel onto it,” Bernstein says in an interview over Zoom. The method worked well enough to become Bernstein’s signature, eponymous technique. Yes, it’s called “Bernsteining,” but as Bernstein explained, he didn’t give it that name: it was one of his students at Pilchuck, who even made T-shirts with the coinage. Having attained the form of a verb, Alex Gabriel Bernstein entered the canon of American Studio Glass, just like his parents before him. It’s been 20 years since Bernstein finished grad school, so lately he’s been retrospective: “I think it’s really important for an artist to check in [and ask] ‘Hey, what am I doing right now? What have I been doing? What do I wanna do?’” At first, Bernstein didn’t want to do anything with glass. He was raised near Spruce Pine, North Carolina, in the Celo Community, a land trust originally based on Quaker values. To Bernstein’s New
Jersey-born parents, their log cabin in the woods “was their dream come true,” he says. His father William cofounded the Glass Art Society, and his mother Katherine is also a glass artist.1 “I think that influence trickled in … You know, like Dale Chihuly [having] dinner at my parents’ house … [or] running around Harvey Littleton’s studio as a kid,” Bernstein remembers. “Honestly, I think as a kid, I was like, ‘Man, my parents’ friends are weird.’ It was just part of what I knew.” The singularity of that experience got entangled with the more ordinary cruelties of childhood. Growing up Jewish in the Christian South of the 1970s, Bernstein experienced plenty of skepticism about his background. Are you really from Spruce Pine? Bernstein’s home environment was admittedly unique, and he acknowledges the importance of growing up amidst some of Studio Glass’s most famous practitioners. But, as a kid, “I also maybe somewhat resented it because it’s innately what made me different,” he said. Bernstein eventually embraced that difference, as his parents and predecessors did. As he understands it: “You kind of spend your whole life developing a visual language … The visual language for me is the techniques I use, whether it’s the surface, the texture, or the opacity or translucency of the glass. To me, it’s really fun to use these ‘words’ in different ways to tell new stories.” Similar to his forebearers is Bernstein’s volume of work. He tends to produce in series, riffing on a visual or methodological theme until satisfied. The repetitive process may sound like production glass, but Bernstein clarifies that he tried that after college: “I remember getting several fairly large orders and really hating that I had to make the same thing over and over.” The same can’t be said for William and Katherine Bernstein, who made a killing with their glassware, sold at high-end retailers like Saks Fifth Avenue and Henri Bendel to high-end clients like Janet Jackson. Bernstein says he and his brother Josh would joke that goblets paid their college tuition. Bernstein affectionately describes his brother as the family’s black sheep for becoming a physician in a family of artists, but Bernstein’s tuition wasn’t going toward art classes at the University of North Carolina at Asheville: Bernstein went from undergrad studies into pediatric psychiatry.
The artist’s father, William Bernstein, pictured with artist Paul Marioni at Pilchuck Glass School in 1984.
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Betty’s Fight, 2001. Cast and cut float glass, fused steel. H 4, W 24, D 2 in. COLLECTION: THE CORNING MUSEUM OF GLASS
The field of psychology fascinated Bernstein for its exposé of how people think and perceive. This fascination lives on in Bernstein’s subject matter: abstraction, which can stretch as far as a mind will go. Bernstein’s interest in psychology was genuine, and he knows working at the psychiatric hospital “was important [to his development] as a human being.” It was also shocking. Bernstein worked as a “behavioral management specialist” in the the “sexually reactive” unit. Many of the kids were chronic inpatients, with abusive pasts and problematic behaviors of their own. It was an environment Bernstein had never even imagined existed. In the mornings, his world was more familiar. Before his second shift at the hospital, Bernstein worked for a local glassblower. At first the paycheck was more enticing than the artistry, but glassblowing led to Bernstein’s own sculptural projects, then to a leave of absence from the hospital to attend classes at the Penland School of Craft. Bernstein realized the psych ward was hard, draining work: “I think the burnout rate was about three years, and that’s about as far as I went.” Where Bernstein went next was the Rochester Institute of Technology, where he was taught by seasoned professionals like Michael Taylor, Robin Cass and František Janák, a Czech master of glass casting. Casting would drive Bernstein’s work in a bold new direction. At first he was reliant on what he knew, blowing glass for every assignment. Eventually, Bernstein felt the glassblowing was holding his ideas hostage. An untitled sculpture made around this time shows a blown form basically strangled, suffocated, as it’s stretched out on a vise-like instrument. 28
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Bernstein took quickly to casting, as it “translated very well for my appreciation of athletic activities. Cutting and carving glass is very physically challenging. I enjoy that part of it,” he says. Casting also has the advantages of time and contemplation, whereas glassblowing is all about speed, forbidding second thoughts. Bernstein adopted an “unorthodox” style to cope with what he did see as casting’s biggest annoyance: making wax and rubber molds. This is the main difference from his Czech Republic counterparts, whose work is often an education in geometry. Bernstein, meanwhile, will use a cut-up fire extinguisher or other oddly shaped molds. As Janák told Bernstein: “What you do is not correct, but it works for you. So keep doing it.” Betty’s Fight (2001) displays Bernstein’s nascent disregard for casting traditions. Made to commemorate Betty Oliver, a poet and family friend who died of breast cancer, it was cast from plate glass that Bernstein “dug from a trash can” and shaped in a steel mold. The result was a sickly-looking artifact with a certain grace. The piece speaks to Bernstein’s then-new understanding of cast glass as having an “aura,” a spiritual weight. Today, his works are much heftier, and carved out rather than scavenged from a can. Bernstein’s process uses cast glass as its base, but the artist likens himself to “a stone sculptor. My creative side comes from subtractive sculpting,” he says. To help the cast glass endure its surgery, Bernstein anneals it for longer than recommended. Once cooled, Bernstein draws on the glass, which serves as a guide for the cuts he’ll make next. Then, if the piece is getting Bernsteined, he’ll mask off parts of the sculpture so that only a portion receives the “patina” look.2
Early on, Bernstein consciously avoided bright colors in his work, something that distanced him from the tendency toward vibrant colors in Studio Glass. As his aesthetics gradually loosened up, a freshly graduated Bernstein shipped up north to teach at the Cleveland Institute of Art. After teaching his three classes (including stone sculpting), a lonely Bernstein would spend hours in the studio, constantly refining his work. “The business of being an artist,” Bernstein says, became more and more tangible. Scoring a show at New York’s Chappell Gallery became a dangling carrot that pushed Bernstein to make even more work. Within a few years, Bernstein moved again, this time to work as glass department head at the Worcester Center for Crafts in Massachusetts. Not knowing anyone in the area, his isolation deepened. Lacking a proper kiln, he turned some spare billets into an array of little sculptures—“his friends,” as some of his students jokingly referred to them. Then, as Bernstein puts it: “I met a girl.” He and Jessica Levengood, a city planner, started dating when they were both in Massachusetts, a state neither of them “necessarily loved” to call home. When Jessica found a job opportunity near Asheville, North Carolina, the couple moved south. Asheville is an hour from Spruce Pine, and for Bernstein, it’s not unlike the artistic community he grew up in. Walk into a bar and you’ll find an artist or two (or more). Many of Bernstein’s Asheville works have visualized generation and nourishment. The “seedpod” series—like Large Amber Stone Burst (2010)—is a representative example, inspired by a neighbor kid selling flower bulbs when he and Jessica moved into their first home. More recently, Bernstein has used ouroboric, open-circle forms to suggest continuing growth, as in New Spring Crystal (2020). Bernstein got over his hang-ups about beauty and color, as these pieces show, and many now sport peacock-levels of saturation. Their carefully chiseled forms are indebted to things like geodes, crystals, or—in the case of Blue Ridge (2018)—the Dolomite Mountains, which Bernstein cycled through with a German friend pre-Covid. The increasing sophistication of Bernstein’s work called for a proper studio. After trading spaces several times, Bernstein worked with an architect to design his own digs near the French Broad River. Bernstein held onto the signage from the building’s previous occupant: Sharky’s Billiards, which had “the best tables in Asheville,” according to one pool-playing college student.3 The pool hall was “a culmination of a dream” for its original owner. Once repurposed into a hot shop, the space fulfilled Bernstein’s wishes too.
Amber Stone Burst, 2010. Cast and cut glass, fused steel. H 36, W 8, D 4 in. PHOTO: STEVE MANN
Steel Green Ocean, 2015. Cast and cut glass, fused steel. H 14, W 25, D 4 in. PHOTO: STEVE MANN
Then, in 2011, Alex and Jessica Bernstein welcomed their son Max into the world. He had a stroke two days later. Max survived, but today he lives with cerebral palsy. Now in the third grade, Bernstein says “He’s a super smart kid.” They’ve been spending lots of time together since Max’s school went virtual in the pandemic. The fragility and uncertainty of Max’s early life profoundly colored Bernstein’s art. Or, rather, it cast the color out: mountainous brown and lead crystal were the primary palette of this era, in works like Misty Ladder (2012). As Bernstein explains: “It’s really hard to make bright colorful work when you’re not happy … I think Jessica and I found ourselves both struggling with trying to be solid and strong for Max.”
This era corresponds with the leaded crystal work Bernstein made while he was in Cleveland—a time of great creativity but personal and social isolation. Both bodies of work are “introspective,” Bernstein says, “with the Cleveland work literally exploring the interior of the glass.” In the Max-era work, “The only color com[es] from the rusty steel.” The pandemic has found Bernstein isolated again, but this time he’s with Max. It’s been a productive time for Bernstein, even without his usual assistants, as seen in “Murmur,” Bernstein’s recent show at Blue Spiral 1 in Asheville. He calls the exhibition “a survey of explorations I’ve done during Covid … There is a mix of different series … [and] they interact and talk to each other.”
New Spring Crystal, 2020. Cast and cut glass, fused. H 18, W 18, D 4 in. PHOTO: LUMINA/DANIEL FOX
“Murmur” entertained a true variety of techniques, textures, and forms. The application of steel—at first a happy accident—has since acquired an ornately prehistoric look, as in Steel Clear Half Moon, where rusty, rock-like steel hugs the sculpture’s edges. Different forms are appearing too, like the cheerful “contact lens or fried egg?” that is Gold Round. Or, objects are multiplying, as in the glittery Mixed Crystal Trio (2019)—a “crystal grouping” motif that Bernstein began using when Max was young. Bernstein’s recent work has impressed even his mom Katherine, who admires the figurative-like diptych Mountain Shadow (2021). “This is kind of a big deal, because my parents don’t always love my work,” Bernstein says with a laugh. His work has always prioritized natural forms, but now Bernstein is zooming out to a landscape state of mind. With his crystal groupings like in mind, Bernstein is pondering installations, pieces so big “you can walk through [them].” Since the pandemic gifted them a shared routine, Max and his dad have often gone for walks in the woods. With adaptive equipment, Max can join his dad in exploring the forest. I ask Bernstein if these outings ever jog ideas or solutions to his sculptures. “When I’m with Max, I really try to be with him 100 percent and not be distracted by things at work,” Bernstein wrote in a follow-up email. “But often in these times … an idea or a resolution to the problem I’ve been working on in the studio dawns on me.” Looking at the first draft of this article, it dawns on me that I’ve written way too much. Suddenly, I understand Bernstein’s process more. I imagine it’s more thrilling to watch a piece of glass take
Crystal Mountain Range Triptych, 2017. Cast and cut glass, fused steel. H 22, W 18, D 6 in. PHOTO: STEVE MANN
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Gold Stone, 2018. Cast and cut lead crystal. H 20, W 20, D 4 in. PHOTO: STEVE MANN
Diamond Morning is like that broken bucket, seemingly emptying itself. It evokes a whole scenery for me: the moon escaping the French Broad River at dawn. Morning as it burns into a new day. Another day to collect water, to find what’s important. Another day for father and son to wander in the woods. ALEXANDER CASTRO has been a regular contributor to GLASS since 2017. He, too, is a “second-generation” artist: a writer with a style very different from his dad’s.
1
Katherine Bernstein was originally a ceramicist but switched to glass at the suggestion of Harvey Littleton.
2
Bernstein has used copper sulfite to expedite the “rusted” metal look. Other pieces, like Green Coral Fan (2017), were left outside to acquire a natural patina.
See “Sharky’s makes waves: Riverside pool hall provides open and safe atmosphere,” The Blue Banner (UNC Asheville student newspaper), Jan 24, 2008. This article is on the same page as an art review with the title “Student show breaks the mold”—a headline that could just as easily describe Bernstein.
3
Diamond Morning, 2016. Cast and cut glass, fused steel. H 27, W 26, D 4 in. PHOTO: LUMINA/DANIEL FOX
shape, but there’s pleasure, too, in whittling down a paragraph. I start hacking and slashing until only the necessary words remain. A subtractive process is an agreement between patience and excess. I empathize with Bernstein, especially in that he’s sometimes troubled by his artworks: their tantrums, their noncompliance, their reluctance to reveal themselves. Sometimes a piece is a real puzzler, its incompletion taunting Bernstein all the way to the dinner table, where Jessica might ask: “What’s wrong?” “I care a lot, and I think a lot about my work,” Bernstein says. “Caring is probably a good way to live, but it’s also uncomfortable.” The latter part of that quote resonates strongly after nearly a year of a global pandemic. It’s bizarre to think now of March 2020, a time when all of humanity was on the same plane of unknowingness and anxiety. Have our perceptions ever been so aligned? That level of consensus reality probably won’t happen again, and most of us have since retreated to the comfort of our own delusions and quirks. 32
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But Bernstein’s sculptures are generous in this regard. They’re changed by our attention. What we bring into them is resounded back to us, beautifully affirmed. “Everyone brings their own memories and their own history [to an artwork], so I really like that aspect of being an abstract sculptor,” Bernstein says. In Diamond Morning (2016), a brilliant blue goop seemingly spills out from a wicker-like diamond frame. It reminds me of the story of Chiyono, a Zen abbess who had an epiphany when retrieving water from a well. The bottom of Chiyono’s bucket suddenly broke, and as the water spilled out, so did the moon reflected in its surface. Chiyono concluded in a poem: With this and that, I tried to keep the bucket together, and then the bottom fell out. Where water does not collect, the moon does not dwell.
COPYRIGHT © 2021 Glass: The UrbanGlass Art Quarterly (www.glassquarterly.com). All rights reserved. This article originally appeared in the Summer 2021 edition of Glass (#163). Permission to reprint, republish and/or distribute this material in whole or in part for any other purposes must be obtained from UrbanGlass (www.urbanglass.org).