mosaics.

IMG_4102

IMG_4112

Yesterday I stood in front of my car for five full minutes, blinking blinking blinking, hoping one of those blinks would erase what I was seeing: the entirety of my windshield one splintered, broken mess. I was out of breath and dripping sweat from a run that, moments before, I had been proud of. I wasn’t proud anymore. I was only instantaneously, irrevocably crushed. If you’ll allow for a painful metaphor: my entire body felt as cracked as that fucking windshield. My spirit, my heart, my skin, my organs. Everything started shattering outward until I fell into bits on the asphalt.

Or that is what would have happened if the universe was kind. But the universe isn’t kind, it just is, and so I went inside and started calling auto repair shops and then went out and bought myself a new pair of boots. Expensive, brown, and justified by the little equation I worked out in my head (cost of new windshield = price of windshield + price of urethane kit + labor + tax + these fucking boots).

A few weeks ago Jaimee and I went to visit the Mosaic Tile House, an unreal dream abode in Venice, California. We were welcomed warmly by wife and husband team Cheri Pann and Gonzalo Duran. Gonzalo brought us out back to the studio, a huge, open white room that stretched onward an unfathomable distance. Some TARDIS-level use of space I couldn’t quite wrap my brain around. Every inch of counter space in that studio was piled with broken glass and tile, materials that Cheri will eventually use to continue her dream project of turning their house into one big art space.

She has me break them, Gonzalo explained before taking each of our phones and snapping photographs of us caught in the smashed mirrors that made up the outside wall.

Yesterday, standing in front of my car, I couldn’t help but remember the mosaics.

Yeah, fine, there’s beauty in everything. The way shattered glass catches and reflects the sunlight in a way that unshattered glass cannot. Yeah, fine. Yeah, fine.

I still wanted to break open and splinter and fall apart. I still wanted to blink everything away.

IMG_4103

IMG_4115

IMG_4118

IMG_4120

IMG_4121

IMG_4125

IMG_4127

IMG_4129

IMG_4131

IMG_4135

IMG_4138

IMG_4141

IMG_4144

IMG_4145

IMG_4150

IMG_4152

IMG_4154

IMG_4158 IMG_4163

IMG_4164

IMG_7954

photographs taken at the Mosaic Tile House in Venice, California. 

Advertisements

3 thoughts on “mosaics.

  1. We used to drink in a pub that had a tile mosaic wall.
    The tiles were tiny inch-square mirrors and, whether intentionally or not, they were all tilted at very slightly different angles, just enough that if four of us stood in front of the wall, we looked like Talking Heads on the cover of “More Songs About Buildings And Food”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: