Just after I wrote the last entry, I visted my friendly neighborhood potter, who is also a saint.
I told him my whole sad story of bad plaster and he very kindly loaded a
50 lb. bag of Potting Plaster into my car.
On my next available day for casting, I opened the bag of plaster, ready
to start mixing. I plunged my hand into
the bag and discovered another bag of horrible lumpy plaster. This one was actually worse than the last
one. Just to be sure, I mixed up a
little test batch, and it was grainy, chunky and lumpy – not at all suitable
for a sculpture mold.
This was my last possible day for mold making. I’m down to the wire with six weeks left
before I leave for the East Coast. There’s no time left to wait for more plaster
to arrive. I did the only thing I could
do. I hauled out the lumpy stuff from
NY, got the seive from my kitchen and started to sift out the lumps. Mixed up a test batch and it was
beautiful. Made a shell coat and it was
also beautiful. Finished the mold,
waited for it to set and separated the mold from the sculpture. Beautiful mold. Phew.
Rome is saved.
So, I talked to my saintly potter friend and told him about
the bad plaster. He responded with a story about a
friend of his, younger than we are, who unexpectedly died this week. A feature of being sixty and seventy is that
about once a month, an old friend, aquaintance or enemy abruptly checks out
early. All very sobering. The bell doth toll for him who thinks it doth. It’s enough to make you take your vitamins,
floss your teeth and exercise daily.
“Just remember, in Heaven, there’s no bad plaster,” my potter friend said.
“Yeah,” I snapped, “that’s because all casting is done in Hell.”
“Yeah,” I snapped, “that’s because all casting is done in Hell.”
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| Good plaster |
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| Bad plaster |
