The Year in Sand: 2004

"'Yes,' the king replied, 'but to those who use well what they are given, even more will be given. But from those who are unfaithful, even what little they have will be taken away.'" Gospel of Luke 19:26 NLT

"Looking at how you number your sculptures, I was struck with the reality: You really are quite an amazing amalgam ---- You have the mind of an engineer, the heart of a warrior and the soul of an artist." (Lu, Email 2004 Aug 23)

I replied:
"Engineer, yes. Artist, check. But... warrior? Where did you get that idea? Maybe you meant '...heart of a worrier.' What have I done that would lead you to this astounding conclusion? I'm really curious.
    I run from my own shadow! God shows me what he has planned and I quake in my bare feet! The future terrifies me. So... I don't look at it. One day at a time, please.
    If you're right... oh, boy, am I in trouble. "Much will be expected from those who have been given much." I'll try not to think about that, too.


Standing out is trouble. I'm a troubleshooter, and learned a long time ago that the best way to solve a problem is not to let it happen. Chameleon survive by staying so still that predators can't find them against the background; in effect, the chameleon is just one more rock amid many. Survival.
    Why bother? Just one rock amid many? I can't stand that, and have taken great steps at times to make sure I don't just disappear.
    Now I find myself a follower of Jesus. He has his own plans for my life. It looks like a program to me.
    We'd start so early that we were in western Kansas by the time the sun showed itself above the flat eastern horizon. Long hours would follow the car as we crawled over the Colorado border and continued west. More hours would pass and I'd finally see a hint of change ahead. West, ever west. At least there was something to look forward to; on the reciprocal trip the good part was as the very beginning and the rest, returning to Salina, was a gradual sinking into flat reality. Westbound, though, was different. A promise, a memory and then finally the reality. A wall on the west. The wall would get taller and take on detail but was still a wall. Here flat, there turned on end. And then by some miracle we'd reach the wall and pass through. Rock rose above the car. We were there. Mountains. Cool air. Detail unimaginable in that flat outside view.

Build number: 04F-10 (lifetime start #292); monolith on short riser
Title: "No Robot"
Date: October 2
Location: Venice Breakwater, on the flat
Start: 0545, construction time 11 hours
Size: 42 inches tall, 21 inches diameter, immersion filtered low-tide sand (Latchform)
Helpers: none
Digital Images: 64, with Canon Powershot G2 (includes Rich's process shots)
Photo 35mm: none
Photo 6X7: none
Photo volunteer: Rich, w/Canon Z115 and Powershot
Video motion: none
Video still: none
Video volunteer: none
New Equipment: Rebuilt "Solid Hit" Bigfoot Tamper



There's not even a hint of the coming day. The western sky is completely dark; airliners draw a dotted line against the slight offshore breeze on final approach to LAX.
    Three quarters of a moon helps illuminate the beach. I can tell the difference between seaweed and sand, and choose a spot big enough for the sculpture. Then I have to race the rising tide for sand.
    That's why I'm here at 0-dark-30. Sand. The tide is low right now but won't be for very much longer. I have to borrow 1000 pounds from the low tide area before King Neptune realizes what I'm doing. He usually finds out anyway, and this time is no exception. He fills each borrow pit I dig. I still get four cartloads, plus a half for insurance.
    Light gradually rises in the east. Dark blue over the orange street lights, then a lighter blue. Some of the reflected sunlight helps me find my way from dig to dump but the sun is still well below the horizon. More loads, more light and then the east starts to turn golden. Not a cloud hazes the sky, and then a bright spark come out from behind a building.
    I was the first one here. Not even a surfer. Fishermen were the first to arrive, and then a jogger. Pelicans fly even when it's dark, barely identifiable shades cruising north on the heavy night air. Down at the headquarters building, the Six-Eyed Monster revs up but then is delayed in its sand cleaning mission. One surfer sneaks in, then another. A dog-walker, trying to get in and out before the police.  A squabble of seagulls flies overhead, and then, finally, another flight of pelicans whose white heads gleam in the new sunlight.
    Packing sand isn't rocket science; there is time to think. It's the necessary first step, the way I earn my right to carve. Today there's not much I want to think about. Trying to keep the door closed on God is a difficult proposition, especially when you know the conclusion is foregone.
    The conflict is legitimate. What point is there in living if everything I do and all I have comes from God? What is my role? Does what I think matter at all? Well, take a look at the cross. That's God's statement of my value to him. Would He have done that for a robot? It's a nice thought but for some reason I can't stay with it. This has always been a big issue; to those who have nothing, dignity is all, and I have always worked hard to maintain mine. God probably doesn't think much of human dignity. How far am I willing to push the rebellion? Far enough to make a sculpture.

"What you planning for the weekend, Larry?"
    My co-worker Saif has come to wash his hands in the sink near my desk. It's an odd office, but it works. "Sand sculpture on Saturday. Other than that no plans."
    "Sounds good. Have you ever gotten any jobs doing sand sculpture?"
    "A few. Most of the time they just want buildings or animals. Not interesting. Last week I got a call from some folks who wanted me to do a Pepsi logo of sand. Painted. Yuck. Would have paid me $500 for the day's work. Simple. No dice."
    "You should have done it. Take their money and go on."
    I look at him with distaste plain to see on my face. He looks surprised. "I'm not going to prostitute myself that way. It's sort of like that story of the goose that laid the golden eggs: leave the goose alone, it lays an egg every day. But then the owners decided to cut it open and get all the eggs, and of course they killed it. No more eggs. Sand sculpture is like those golden eggs to me. I don't want to kill the gift.
    About 48 hours later this conversation echoes in my mind as a woman asks me why I don't try to market myself. I continue to work on the sculpture for a minute and then turn to face her.
    "I'm lousy at marketing. The problem is that you can either be good, or marketable, and I'd rather be good. I simply won't prostitute myself for the sake of fame."
    "But you prostitute yourself at work. To a certain extent."
    "Yes, and I'm willing to accept that. We have to work. They give me money, I give them time. I don't give them my heart, however, and sand sculpture comes from a much deeper place than troubleshooting communication equipment. I'm good at it, yes, but I need this too. I need the freedom."


Today there might be too much freedom. This sculpture has grown without benefit of any plan. Somehow I never found time to think about it during the last two weeks.
    The whole thing is a mess. I'm tempted to abandon it in place and go home. It's too familiar, too chaotic, and will never come together. I wasn't in the best of moods when I came down here--arguing with God sort of leads to that--and things haven't improved.
    Yet the day is lovely. Regular flights of pelicans have flown past. Well-formed waves have given some surfers good rides, if short ones. Being depressed on the beach is better than being depressed at home. The ocean sparkles in a brisk breeze. A comical dark grey bird with a bright vermilion beak washes itself in the calm water behind the breakwater. Sandpipers and avocets probe for bugs in the wet sand as the tide slowly drops.
    Don't quit. It's one of the earliest lessons I learned; where others will try something once, fail and quit, I'll do more research. Are all the roads closed or is there a bypass? Often enough there is a route around the obstruction. Failure analysis shows what went wrong and mental experiments show possible solutions. The only way to find out if they'll work is to try them. The whole process moves forward. Design is more difficult. I have too many expectations. But quitting just isn't the way. Cutting with wild abandon doesn't work either. There has to be some discipline. I keep walking the fine line and trusting in the packing job I did so many hours ago, and the block of sand gradually turns into a sculpture. What was a hopeless mess at 1300 is, by about 1500, looking much different.
    "It may not be the most beautiful thing I've ever made, Rich, but it is most certainly spectacular."
    "Oh, I think it's a good one."
    "That's just because it has lots of holes."
    "OK, you get another cookie."
    "I won't prostitute myself, but I can be bribed. Thank you."
    "You'd have done it anyway."
    "Guilty as charged. I just don't know how I'll ever clean it up."
    "Because of the details?"
    "No. Because of those unsupported panels.
    I've never done a topless sculpture before. This one has two thin vertical panels, unconnected to anything. One false move--a stubbed finger, a misapplied tool--and it will just fall off. Clean up is necessarily limited. as I can't push very hard on the brush, so I'll just have to tolerate the crumbs of sand in the small holes.
    I walk to the trailer to park two buckets. Turning around I see that it was all worth it. Low angle sunlight has filled the sculpture with light. The whole thing glows, as if made of light. Getting rid of the top has allowed a flood of sunshine to bounce around and every detail is fired. There have been hints of this in other sculptures but none so powerful. I'm mesmerized.
    Then Rich discovers it. "You need to see it from this angle. The light does nice things."
    "I just saw it. Seems I've solved the problem of how to handle a sculpture's top: remove it."
    LIght and shadow merge and play within a complex combination of surfaces. The little holes admit fingers of light that provide bright punctuation to the shades of gold and blue. Rich and I walk around it, amazed.
    Normally quitting is easier. I get into the sculpture and forget various things, like eating and drinking. Now the Holy Spirit reminds me to eat, and I end up having more energy at the end of the day, to push the sculpture through to completion. Such a simple thing, food. It's amazing how much I burn while doing this, but this sculpture shows the benefit of paying some attention to physical needs.
    "Did you make this?"
    "Yes."
    "How did you make it?"
    I give them the well-practiced explanation. A few minutes later I see them all grouped around a pile of sand, doing drip-castles. The problem is that they're about 50 feet from the water, so they're running back and forth to pick up handfuls of wet sand. Soon they move a bit closer but still not close enough.
    "I can't resist it, Rich."
    He laughs as I walk over to where they're working.
    "You have the right idea, but you need to be farther down." I start digging. They pause to watch. "If you dig deep enough you start to get water." Right on cue, water starts to seep into the hole, and I take out a wet handful. "Then you can pile it in handfuls like this. I've made sculptures five feet tall this way."
    "No way."
    "Yes. It works very well. And this is good sand."
    Soon they're all busy digging and piling.
    "You can use mussel shells for carving." A few minutes pass. "And there you have an arch." They're all going to school at Colorado University. "Anyone here in engineering?"
    "I am."
    "Have you ever heard the term catenary?"
    "No. What is it?"
    "A kind of arch, like the on in St. Louis. Unlike the Roman arch, a catenary is self-stable." I carve through and finish it. "Like that." It stands about ten inches tall. 04P-2, another demo, and this one stands. "Have fun, guys."
    I walk back to where Rich is watching the light change on my sculpture. It has deepened to a wonderful gold, but I still don't want to wait for sunset. I do shoot a few more images.
    "And now I really have had it, Rich." We pull my equipment across the sand to my bike.



I ride home slowly. An attempt to talk Debbie and Nate into Killer Shrimp fails, so I settle for leftover chicken stew and then take some time to wash all the sand off.
    The night's reading is Luke, chapter 19. I read that frightening story about the servants who are given money to invest. Those who invest well get more, but the one who just sat on the money gets stripped of everything. The implication of this for me has always been the wages of my usual underground life. I have gifts but don't use them. God is probably upset about that, too.
    Then a new idea hits me. The verse says not only that those who are faithful will get more but that those who are unfaithful will lose what they've been given. I may not be doing much with my gifts but I still have them. The implication here is that if I were misusing them I'd have lost them. I could turn prostitute and just stay in front of the television. Instead I built a lantern on the beach that no one else could have made. It's not under a bucket, but standing for all to see. What they get from it is open to question. Engineer, artist and warrior have teamed up to produce this particular fantasy.

"I can't believe how good this place feels." Debbie is smiling. We're waiting for Thai food. Post-church lunch.
    We'd been to Metro again. I sat there in post-sculptural bliss as the music washed over me. Then they pulled a real surprise: the Lord's Supper. Usually I have to ease my way into this; it is no empty ritual. Now I have about three minutes and then Debbie taps me on the shoulder so I can take a piece of bread. I'd had my eyes closed and was remembering Jesus real act that makes new life possible. Steve's message was taken from Psalm 15 and other places, talking about change from the heart. Familiar subject matter to any Mosaic habitue' but built in a much different way. No less deep, but broader. Afterward I had just enough brains to follow Nate. We ended up at Flower of Siam.
    "Yes. This was real teaching. Discipling teaching. I like the pastor."
    Debbie says "I was wondering what I could do for them. I want to help."
    "How'd the sculpture go, Larry?" Nate asks.
    "Oh, it was spectacular. When the sun hit it, it turned into a lantern. Thought it was going to be a disaster for a long time, but the Holy Spirit wouldn't let me quit. We'd been arguing about it. I don't want to be a robot. I can't figure out why He cares."
    Debbie looks straight at me. "God delights in your presence."
    "Rick, one of the men at the church camp where I was a counsellor, used to tell a story about when he was a kid," Nate says. "His father did construction work, and had to push a heavy wheelbarrow full of rocks and dirt. Rick was with him and would help. He'd put his hands on the wheelbarrow's handles and walk along. Of course he was too small to really help, but his father liked it  He delighted in his son being there with him."
    "I wish I'd believed that someone delighted in me when I was a kid." I wish I had that feeling right now. I probably could but trust that deep is very hard to learn after years of experience with essential self-protection.

2004 October 3
Construction photography by Richard Johnson
Report clean-up for blog, 2016 January 15