Sharing The Miracle
by Alexandra York

I knew the process, of course. Intellectually. From the sculptor's clay model to the rubber mold to the wax to the ceramic mold and... at last, cire perdue, the dramatic (I imagined) pouring of the bronze — the method of casting bronze sculpture through the ancient "lost wax" method that was brought to its apotheosis during B.C. sixth-century Greece, revived during the Renaissance and continues today. I even understood and was completely at home with the finer points of bringing a work of bronze from conception to completion: from the maquette (the artist's first "sketch") and the armature that becomes the skeleton supporting the articulated clay model to the chasing and patination that fine tune and color the finished bronze piece. I had seen countless clay models "in the works" by various sculptors, revisited many of the same pieces again after they had been cast in plaster, and finally viewed the finished bronzes. But I had never witnessed with my own eyes the actual pouring of the bronze.

For years, I'd begged every sculptor I knew to take me along to the foundry when next they went. I promised to stay out of the way. I even promised to keep quiet. I promised lunch, dinner... anything. Just take me to see it! I wasn't hurt when no invitation ever came my way. I knew well that the sculptors I entreated — even though some of them were close friends as well as colleagues — were totally and properly absorbed with their work. Most of them, although they often execute detail work on the wax models, chasing on the finished bronze, and routinely supervise the patination process, don't habitually watch the actual pouring of the bronze themselves, even when their own molds are being filled. Any remembrance of my request at any of the crucial points in their work requiring a foundry visit was understandably wiped away by whatever existential task demanded their attention at the time. Sculptors have work to do when they go to a foundry. Living in New York, I could have gone "cold" to any one of a number of respectable foundries that offer public tours of their facilities. But, stubbornly, I didn't want an impersonal lecture tour, and I also didn't want to be part of a group. Sculpture is a major passion with me; therefore, I held out. I resolutely desired to be the only civilian in the room (the place? the space? where was it?) when it happened. Time passed. I pined on.

Then I made a new friend (through ART) who was, over time, to become a soul brother. And his first act of friendship was to offer me a whole day of sculpture-related events and art/ideas conversation, a day holding as its centerpiece that singular experience I had longed for — a private viewing of my first bronze pouring. My sculptor friend did not even plan to parlay our visit to the foundry by tending to any of his own work on the appointed day; the pouring was a gift from him to me, and I accepted it as such. Excited and grateful, I was certain that an important occasion was about to take place. How wrong I was! "Important" would be a puny word, indeed, to characterize what was to become one of the supreme spiritual experiences of my life.

The head of the foundry (and since then its owner) showed his respect for my sculptor friend by escorting me personally into his domain. An attractive, compact man vital with energy, my guide's silver white hair and trim beard of the same color served only to frame his intelligent, brown eyes, eyes that — serious or laughing — emitted a fire consistent with his profession. Well before our first handshake or his first words of welcome, I was intensely aware of those eyes, lit from deep inside him; here was a man in love with his work. Now we were three kindred spirits venturing forth together on this mutually-chosen morning.

Passing from the carpeted, public sculpture gallery down a hallway lined with comfortably-decorated offices, a door was opened to let me enter first into the foundry proper. The contrast was startling. I suddenly heard the heels of my boots clicking over bare, concrete floors. I smelled a potpourri of unfamiliar chemicals, traced the purposeful strides of people dressed for messy jobs, and heard dozens of sounds, none of which I could positively identify. A crossing had been made: I had traversed a threshold into a known but unseen world, into the active midst of a working factory as utilitarian as any other that might manufacture mere widgets. But here, it was art they were making. Here, artists and artisans worked together every day plying the highly-skilled crafts that technically produce the art of bronze sculpture. Sculpture, that puissant three-dimensional, sensuously tangible form of art with the power not only to evoke emotional responses ranging from joy to sorrow in us but also to entice us to touch it, to stroke it, to physically handle it as well. For me, the homely and cracked factory floor upon which our trio so casually tread, chatting and pointing, became as holy ground... the laborers, workers of wonders. The sense of commitment and camaraderie I had observed in my guide — the boss — permeated every room we entered. Employees of different ages, colors, genders, sizes and ranks exhibited the same focus and friendliness that he did. The foundry mark stamped onto every piece of sculpture leaving this place (whether the art be monumental or modest) bears witness to the cooperation and pride of all those responsible for making it a fine mark.

I had many questions. Some, I suppose, were posed in rather tedious detail. But all were answered seriously and patiently. My friend, I noticed, remained rather quiet, letting the foundryman take front and center. I looked and listened and learned. And marvelled. I already knew that this method of casting bronze sculpture had been going on for three-thousand years, but I had no idea how modern technology has altered and improved the process. I heard the enchanting story of how, after their lunch break, the Italian Renaissance workers used to flip their empty wine bottle into the molten bronze just prior to a pour. I learned that the exercise wasn't a frivolous flourish; the property of silicon in the glass of the bottle actually strengthened the metal. Today, after many years of neglecting the practice, silicon is again added (albeit less romantically) to the bronze, which is otherwise an alloy of copper, lead, tin and zinc.

Surrounded by plaster models of sundry shapes and scale, I watched, mesmerized, as melted, orange-colored wax was brushed swiftly and expertly onto the inside surface of rubber molds that had been pulled from the plaster casts. The casts, themselves, had been made from an earlier, less sturdy rubber mold taken directly from the original clay model. Certain contemporary sculptors bypass the plaster phase and go straight from clay to the production mold which gives the finished work a rougher texture, but most elect to make a plaster cast for two reasons: one, they can work the plaster itself to refine a piece and, two, since the clay model is usually damaged by taking a mold from it, they have a more durable model from which to pull future molds in case the first one is destroyed. I noted that the wax was being layered onto the mold more thinly than I had expected, perhaps only 1/8 to 1/4 inch thick in all, depending on the size of the piece. It was astonishing to realize that when the mold is removed, it is this fragile wall of wax, cooled into a hollow form identical to the original clay model, on which (as mentioned earlier) many sculptors do even more detail work to assure that it is precisely as they wish it. Whether done by the artist or a skilled artisan at the foundry, this last touching-up of the wax is crucial because it is this wax form that will be "lost" when the final ceramic mold built around it receives the flow of liquid bronze that ultimately takes the wax's shape as it takes its physical place to become a work of art.

Once we left the room containing the plaster casts, nothing really resembling "art" presented itself again for a good, long while. I saw wax gates and vents attached to the wax sculptural forms that would eventually provide the wax and gases their exit routes out of the mold. Then I saw the forms fitted with metal funnels that would become the entry points into which the bronze would flow to fill the vacated spaces. I saw the ceramic molds (modern space technology permitting this new material to withstand levels of high heat undreamed of in past eras) tonged white-hot from huge kilns and placed casually in haphazard rows to cool like any other piece of pottery, as if each piece of ceramic didn't contain the precious, now-empty core that would soon make way for art. I sensed a growing inner anticipation that, increasingly, began to shorten my questions. The piece de resistance came next, and I was far from resisting. Only minutes later, the foundryman checked his watch — they weren't pouring just for me; there was a schedule. It was time.

Entering the pouring room was entering a furnace. The referred heat from the boiling cauldron of bronze dictated our physical distance from the scene about to be played or, rather, it seemed to me, the rite to be performed. Even the three workmen present — dressed in high black boots, long silver asbestos coats, thick gray gloves, and yellow hard hats with clear, acrylic full-face visors — looked like modern medieval practitioners about to enact a ritual. A huge, rectangular tub partially filled with sand stood at center stage. With their bases planted carefully into the sand, dozens of ceramic molds stood upended, ready to be filled with the bronze. If the molds toppled, or even tipped, during the pouring, all would be lost. Every movement, every action of the men was calm but precise and measured. An accident could mean not only the destruction of the art but of their own lives. Behind them all, waiting to be shaped to the will of an artist's vision, the golden bronze bubbled. It looked as if the source of all life, the sun itself, had liquefied its energy and streamed into the crucible.

Surveying the different shapes of the ceramic vessels into which the hot metal would soon flow, I was struck by the obvious realization that the bronze that would fill these vessels had no will of its own. If it spilled, it would cool into random patterns depending on gravity and obstacles diverting its indiscriminate path. If the ceramic mold into which it was poured contained ugliness of physical shape or evil of philosophical content, the bronze would cool to become a tangible and concrete manifestation of the mind and soul of the man or woman who had wished to make permanent that image and those ideas. If the vessel contained beauty of shape and nobility of spirit, that, too, would immortalize the soul of the artist who had created it. The bronze, itself a man-invented combination of nature's elements, would be molded forever into an eternal testament to the human will that shaped it.

All three of us were suddenly, unexpectedly, quiet. The only sound was that of the molten metal, coming to a level of heat that now sent occasional droplets of liquid flying up from its roiling surface to flash through the air like a handful of gold coins tossed out in wild abandon. In the background, we could discern the soft-shoe shuffling and vocal murmurs of the men preparing to lift the caldron into the contraption used for the actual pouring. Eventually, one man guided the contraption itself into position, and the other two, maneuvering handles at opposite ends of a long pole at the center of which hung the suspended cauldron, began to pour the bronze that looked and flowed like liquid fire into the separate ceramic molds, inch by inch, one by one.

Disconnected images swirled together in my mind: Prometheus stealing fire from the gods, risking wrath and wounds to offer his gift to humankind, and man taming that fire to make this moment possible — this moment as the smoldering bronze liquid continued to flow from the crucible as benignly as sweet honey from a jar. Athena, protector of the arts... and of heroes; born like an idea in full bloom from Zeus's head to offer her wisdom to the great heroes of the past... and to us, too, if we would earn it. To save a life is heroic, indeed, to give life can also be heroic, but to give life meaning in the sense of creating from the mind an object of worth is the most heroic of all. I surrendered now to the heroic triumph of the pouring of the bronze. To its possibilities. To the triumph of every artist who loves life enough to conceive an internal idea worth giving external shape. I felt like kneeling to those artists, whoever and wherever they are... or whoever they may have been. But I felt like rising, too, from the pride of knowing that I shared the visions of the best of them and that, in responding to their work, I completed the circle of creation. Objects created by humans, the sublime force of a human intention being turned into concrete form — the human ability and desire to create an enduring entity from the molten bronze being poured out now before me in such a minutely controlled fashion that I could scarcely believe those brave workmen breathed at all so steady was their rhythm while executing a process that could destroy them if they slipped — an exhilarating but sobering process that, by nature of its components' complete malleability to human purpose, can be turned equally to death and destruction or to celebration and joy. So danger was part of it. The creation despite the danger. The uncertainty — the risk — that all serious sculptors are willing to bear, all poets, composers, painters and novelists each time they create a work of art, all scientists when they create a new invention — the dangers, mental and physical, tried and met for the sake of the creation... Let it be worthy!

I felt a serene and abiding oneness with the whole world at that moment, a union of mind, body and soul born from the joy of living to witness such a sight of creation, a harmony shared with all others present that day or far away and unknown to me who share the values that make such an experience one of the spirit. I did not know that I was weeping until I glanced at my dear friend who I saw, smiling gently at me, held tears of his own barely in check. Then I turned to my dear guide, whose lively brown eyes brimmed, too, as he gazed kindly into mine with an expression so intimate it was an embrace. I heard my friend's voice, as if coming to me from a great distance, saying something about going for a tissue. "My first time..." I stammered stupidly. The brown eyes of the foundryman held mine steadily for one instant more, while he shook his head. "No," he said simply. "I feel it every time."

Suddenly the moment was shattered by streaks of blazing red and gold bursting like fireworks and exploding like bombs as the bronze — unleashed, now — gushed through a rupture in one of the large ceramic molds. I jumped back in the same instant the foundryman leaped forward. "Breakthrough!" he shouted as he raced to help. Erupting like scalding lava from a miniature volcano, the bronze surged out and splashed in all directions, increasing the fury of its speed as the crack in the vessel enlarged second by second into a gaping hole. In another instant I knew it would blow out of its remaining confines altogether. But the men were running toward it now, having grabbed fistfuls of wet mud from an emergency pile nearby; as a team, they slathered the substance over the opening to stop it up until the mold could contain the bronze once more. The workers layered the mud around the split with their heavy gloves; the foundryman worked barehanded.

It was over as quickly as it had begun. My sculptor friend arrived with tissues in hand just as the last flames seemed to re-enter the mold, while the last wild jets of loose lava spent themselves out crawling in still-burning but no longer spreading masses to a slow halt on the concrete floor. "A breakthrough?" he asked incredulously. I nodded, stunned. He did not try to hide the disappointment in his voice. "In all my years, I've never seen one," he said.

Later, the three of us, walking on together but each alone for many moments with our own private thoughts, passed by dozens of open shelves holding a myriad of recently-cast work. No matter what the subject matter (if any) all pieces stood in the same rough state in which they had emerged from the same type of ceramic molds we had just seen receiving the liquid bronze. After the cooling down period which allows the bronze to resolidify, the molds had been broken to release the fresh castings. Metal rods remained sticking out from caked bronze lumps, some twisted so brutally by the trauma of heat and pressure that they looked like mutilated branches hanging desperately onto alien and inhospitable bushes. None of it remotely resembled art. I broke the silence. "I feel happy to have seen the breakthrough," I ventured. "At the time I didn't realize how rare that is." The foundryman frowned. "Well, I'm not happy. We lost art — that piece was ruined — and we lost money. We could have lost more. No one was hurt, but..." His voice trailed off.

By the time we reached the second floor, all of us had regained our equilibrium. Here, I saw artisans finishing and chasing every imaginable shape from an ethereal female nude to porpoises and funny-looking creatures defying description. Here I saw the dull, lumpy surfaces from casts like the ones downstairs becoming art again for the first time since I viewed the plasters earlier in the morning. Some of the nearly-completed pieces moved me, most did not. Some I did not consider art at all. At this I was neither disappointed nor surprised; our culture is not one where we can encounter artistic excellence often. I did admire enormously the wielding of torches in the room where highly-skilled men and women applied acids to the bronze surfaces — a delicate and demanding craft — to create the exact color of patina desired by each artist. The polishing room was last, where, finally, I could study the end result of the complex and arduous process that is bronze sculpture casting. Smooth and gleaming images that had begun — how long ago? — in the imaginative privacy of the sculptors' minds who had envisioned them now sat on long tables, finished completely and ready to enter the world with a life of their own. It was amazing to think that these images were physically, after all, nothing more than shapes of metal, and hollow at that. Some larger pieces were even completely open at the bottom so that, when turned over, I could see nothing more than an empty cavern of bumpy bronze. But when set aright again, the image had the absolute power, by stimulating my psycho/sensory value system, to affect me in the most profound, emotional manner. It seemed a miracle. Art is a miracle. A miracle of the human mind incarnate.

Our hands clasped not in goodbye nor in a thank you but as a gesture of understanding that no words could express. The foundryman who loved his work — my guide — returned to his beloved territory alone. My friend and I went on to lunch, to examine and to discuss other sculpture, to talk of art and ideas as only soul mates can do. That day — his gift — will remain with me always.

As I lay in bed that night, mulling it all over before sleep turned my experience into a memory, I couldn't help thinking about what men and women have wrought throughout the ages. What shapes and sounds and stories we have created! From a chunk of clay, a block of stone, a palette of paint, a pot full of metal, a thimble full of chemicals, a world full of nature's bounties, all to be recreated into tangible manifestations of human ideas. Matter reshaped by human reason, will and desire to serve and bring pleasure to the human mind, body and soul — this was the essence of the miracle of the pouring of the bronze. Recreating by a process of compatible combination the raw matter of the physical world and the abstract ideas from our minds into art and inventions that cause us to stand in awe of ourselves... our joys, our tears, our hopes, our intellects, our abilities and all that still waits — the possibilities — for future reshaping into the endless frozen forms of ideas... especially the forms of fine art, which nurture our souls as well as our minds. Every act of creation, in its own way, seems a miracle to behold, of course. But, surely, by evidence of the most beautiful and noble and life-enriching acts of human creation — art — we, ourselves, become the most miraculous creation of all.