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Why is it that the form of the paperweight, a showcase of cutting-edge glass technologies in previous centuries, has become one of the most conservative in the field of glass? Is it that the main function of the paperweight is to be stable, difficult to accidentally brush off a table, and in the unlikely event that it does fall, not prone to shatter? Or is it that present-day collectors of glass paperweights have become so enamored of historic high-water marks, such as the French and Italian orbs made between 1845 and 1860, that they celebrate the backward glance rather than the forward?

A casual survey of paperweight galleries reveals that geometric patterning and representational work inspired by nature--both botanical and ornithological--are the preferred types of subject matter. There is a wide range of quality. While there are contemporary paperweights that amaze through their intricate designs or astonishingly lifelike natural forms, others are such stale reproductions of 19th-century designs they are almost suffocating. In the miniature world of the paperweight, it's almost as if 20th-century modernism never took place. Innovation is incremental and mostly technical, and there seems to be more focus on near machine-like perfection than on hand-wrought expression stemming from contemporary life.

Gay LeCleire Taylor, curator of the Museum of American Glass in Millville, New Jersey, and an internationally recognized authority on paperweights, agrees that the field is resistant to major innovation, largely, she feels, because traditional weights perfectly satisfy collectors' wishes. "For collectors, it's that tactile thing: holding this precious object and having an intimate relationship with it, being able to look at all aspects of it. They could spend significant amounts of money, but they still want to be able to hold it."

What, you may ask, is wrong with being satisfied with the allure of the traditional paperweight as a lens into miniature, timeless, and predictable realms of form and color, realms that an individual can hold and admire in his or her hand? The short answer is "nothing," as long as it is acknowledged that the concepts crystallized in today's most prized weights were, once upon a time, fresh and exciting breakthroughs. The emphasis here is on the word "were." We are talking about innovations that are more than 150 years old. What many collectors are seeking is what was being developed when the magnifying properties of a curved glass surface were first exploited for the intensified clarity that is at the heart of the intense, up-close, and personal experience of a glass orb. Particularly when used with geometrical cane patterns or to explore the breathtaking beauty of a perfectly rendered flower, this can be a magical experience. But it does not offer the same wonder and thrill that it did when it was a brand-new technology, something never before encountered. That excitement is only possible with innovation. Which begs the question: When will dramatically different subject matter find its way into a paperweight as an exploration into the concerns and preoccupations of our own time? And what would that paperweight look like? To understand what may be possible, one must first understand a bit more about the origins of the form.

Through the Lens of History

The glass paperweight was born in an era of increasing availability and use of paper for letter writing, but its roots stretch far back into history. The lampworking of small glass elements was perfected in the late 16th century, yet early forms of murrini and millefiori were made by the ancient Romans. And the Romans were following in the footsteps of the ancient Egyptians, who made twisted rods with colored filigree strands as early as the 5th century B.C.

Fast-forward to 1845, when the Venetian glass artist Pietro Bigaglia exhibited his signed and dated weights at an industrial exposition in Vienna. They were a hit, quickly imitated, and almost instantly improved upon. The French, in particular, quickly capitalized on the magnifying properties of glass, and refined and organized Venetian "scrambled" bits of murrini and milky-threaded latticinio into the garlands, carpets, and swirls that would define the great weights made by Clichy, Baccarat, and Saint Louis in the "classic period" (1845-1860). A second important classic category involves the inclusion of floral, fruit, zoological and other lampworked motifs. Paperweights in all their manifestations were appealing as useful and aesthetically pleasing tools for letter writers of the upper class, as well as a growing number of middle-class correspondents.

The craze for classic weights with precisely placed murrini, miniature silhouettes within canes, and miniature representations of nature, reflects prevailing trends in 19th-century science, with its emphasis on taxonomy and morphology. Typical arrangements of murrini suggest orreries (models of solar systems) as well as atomic structures (proposed by Indian and Greek philosophers and confirmed in the late 19th century). The representation of flora and fauna fed into the 19th-century love of natural history collections, exotic plants, and zoos, all oblique emblems of Victorian imperialism. Firms like Baccarat and St. Louis were especially good at producing convincing flameworked flowers encased in glass. A bit later in the century, Pantin and others brought a dewy brilliance to fruits, flowers, and the occasional vegetable or reptile. The Pantin factory is believed to have made a curious weight in the collection of the Art Institute of Chicago. Tiny glass silkworms on a green leaf may have symbolized the contributions of Louis Pasteur to the French silk industry

The "classic period" weights exhibit a mathematical regularity as precise and endlessly enchanting as a Mozart concerto, a reflection of the prevailing tastes of their era. This era ended in part with the invention of the automated bottle-making machine at the turn of the 20th century. As the individual glassblower became increasingly rare, so did the paperweights they often made in their free time or as a sideline. By the end of World War I, some French methods had largely been forgotten in the United States.

The American Paperweight Revival

In paperweights, the often anonymous classic tradition was reborn in many countries during the interwar period. In Scotland from the 1930s to the 1980s, Paul Ysart reinvented old techniques and built on his own father's knowledge of glass. Ysart is responsible some of the most delightful and varied work ever made in traditional millefiori styles, sometimes with sulphide cameo inclusions. Ysart's weights have sometimes been misattributed to old makers.

In the United States, Charles Kaziun began making French-style paperweights in New Jersey in 1939. A superb technician and a subtle, versatile colorist, Kaziun fed the demand for traditional forms, ranging from flowers visible through faceted color overlays to elaborate millefiori and torsade patterns, and fancy silhouette canes.

Appreciation of past achievements is common, even necessary, to all art forms, but it is especially central to the paperweight field. By emphasizing technique over concept, revival over innovation, the American paperweight makers were not shaped by the drive for expression that was typical of the Studio Glass movement, which was going on at the same time.

An exception was Mark Peiser, who was firmly in the Studio Glass field. He dabbled in paperweights that were striking not only for having been made in the furnace rather than with the torch, but also because they always sought to break new ground. In the 1970s, Peiser began a memorable series of vases with imagery clearly related to Abstract Expressionist painting suspended between layers of clear glass. These were Peiser's personal, highly pictorial response to the opulent "Paperweight Vases" (c. 1895-1910) Louis Comfort Tiffany had designed. Those had featured iridescent and opalescent layers of Art Nouveau plant motifs thickly encased in clear glass. From 1975-1981, Peiser made his own "paperweight vases," partly inspired by Asian painting. He would put almost any subject on a vase, including mountains, forests, a Honda Accord, and a semi-Cubist still life of bottles and glasses. His most successful pieces, like the ravishing Butterfly and Wisteria (1981), reflect the natural world with sinuous patterned elegance. All Peiser's designs began as panoramas of flameworked elements that could be picked up on a glass bubble, covered with more clear glass, and blown out to the full-size vase. The viewer's perspective of the finished work transits two transparent image layers.

Around the time Peiser was making his paperweight vases (and over a century after the flowering of the classic period), a young Paul Stankard knew that his "first challenge was to match what the French had accomplished." A highly skilled flameworker of scientific industrial glass, he made the transition to paperweights in 1969 not because he was interested in millefiori, but because botanical motifs fascinated him. Stankard learned to work with soda lime glass instead of the borosilicate he was trained for in order to have access to a wider palette of colors, and he quickly mastered French techniques. The Studio Crafts movement was driven by a renaissance in skills that had been neglected or abandoned in favor of industrialism. One part of the movement drew inspiration from the 1920s potters Shoji Hamada and Bernard Leach. The two were active internationally in promoting fidelity to materials and hand-crafting functional wares in the mingei (anonymous folk) tradition. Stankard is associated in spirit with this more conservative (less abstract and personally expressive) direction. On the other hand, he is also clearly part of the modernist practice of developing a distinctive oeuvre of signed work.

Stankard says he was inspired and encouraged by what was going on with sculpture in glass. "I think the whole Studio Glass movement was energized with a fine art expectation," he says. "I accessed and was challenged by the South Jersey paperweight tradition [exemplified by Kaziun]. I started to focus on the local flowers, which had not been explored then." Stankard was committed to accuracy. Almost alone among glass artists of the day, he revered the great 19th-century Arts and Crafts designer William Morris and emulated Morris's rigorous observation of living plants.

By bringing a new level of fidelity to botanical flameworking, Stankard raised the bar even beyond what the classic paperweight makers were capable of. While a classic weight might present blossoms or fruit in a tiny stylized basket or on an abstract "upset muslin" ground of fragmentary latticinio, Stankard suspended the entire plant in a crystalline, transparent, bubble-free field, a visual infinity. He painstakingly portrayed the individual plant's unique root system and way of situating itself in the (invisible) ground. In the 1990s, he ventured beyond realism to mild surrealism when he attached tiny naked human bodies to the roots of his plants, suggesting humanity's integration with the cycles of life.

Stankard also introduced rectilinear vertical formats, and paperweight collectors bought them. He placed his flowers in grid-based units he called "cloistered botanicals" and sometimes combined these to make larger compositions. His surreal masks and tiny, generic, flameworked figures generally transcend the sentimental or cute aura (or ineptitude) often evident in other artists' attempts to represent the figure. Stankard's effective use of very dark backgrounds suggests the Northern European still life tradition. He also pioneered a larger format by pushing the boundaries of encapsulation. With its increasing scale, his work demanded to be seen as art and could not be held in the hand.

Orb Aesthetics

In 2004, the artist Debbie Tarsitano, who has worked with paperweights and other forms of glass sculpture, encouraged the Museum of American Glass to organize a show that celebrated new directions in the paperweight form. Debbie Tarsitano is the daughter of Delmo Tarsitano, a highly regarded 20th-century maker. Debbie's early imagery was influenced by the figurative painter Andrew Wyeth, and she has always been interested in representation and color symbolism in paperweights. She hoped the collecting field would evolve in new directions.

"As with most collecting groups," LeCleire Taylor says, "paperweight collectors are trying to fill the void where the older collectors are dying off and few younger people are joining. We thought [the 2004 show] would open up this field to those who collect contemporary glass on a small scale and to paperweight collectors as well."

Unfortunately, "Small Glass Sculpture," though enjoyed by many visitors, was "a big flop" with the paperweight crowd, according to LeCleire Taylor. Was the major problem that visitors to the exhibition were frustrated that they couldn't take the small sculptures off their pedestals and caress them?

Perhaps the future of the paperweight depends, in part, on the form being embraced by those who do not have limiting preconceptions. Like Peiser, who never considered himself a paperweight maker, some of the most innovative recent designs encased in glass have been produced by artists who would shudder to think of themselves as paperweight makers. Dominick Labino's smaller "Emergence" series (1980s) could be considered a series of paperweights, with their nested veils of color combining calculation and chance. Weightless layering suggests the light-filled fields of pigment in paintings by Mark Rothko or Morris Lewis. Clearly related to Labino's work, but less bold, are the often egg-shaped weights of Ed Nesteruk who, beginning in the 1980s, developed new methods of coating clear glass with color.

Michael O'Keefe abandoned paperweights for larger works in dichroic glass in 1990, but his weights are notable for their Japanese-influenced originality. Utilizing a silver veiling process, he juxtaposed asymmetrical diaphanous layers of monochrome color. O'Keefe is virtually unique in his preference for a slightly organic exterior form, intended to reflect the shapes inside.

An unusual dedication to solid angular geometric abstraction characterizes the work of James Shaw, the Op artist of paperweights. In the mid-1980s, Shaw began using precise coldworking as a way of faceting and shaping glass elements that were then laminated cold. The mirroring effects of the epoxy he uses, combined with the multitudes of additional reflective faces and precise layers of color, produces a dazzlingly complex visual experience. The pieces aren't cozy to cuddle, but they provide an amazing visual experience. Though acknowledged in paperweight histories, these artists have so far failed to ignite the next generation of 21st-century makers.

Nature: A Contemporary Obsession

Other artists have followed Stankard's impressive neo-realist direction. Beginning in the 1970s, Victor Trabucco's intense observation and skill at assembling individually petaled, flameworked roses (as opposed to Kaziun's and the famous Millville roses made with hot glass in a crimp mold) brought graceful naturalism to a traditional subject. Illusions come naturally to Trabucco, who is also a magician. (He makes glass wands and sells the secrets to some of his magic illusions on the Internet). Trabucco's experiments with color and texture and the optical qualities of glass paid off, in fresh bouquets seamlessly floating in spheres. Another outstanding maker, Chris L. Buzzini, is meticulous in representing delicate flowers that he arranges in curving, almost Art Nouveau nosegays.

Beyond botanical, Delmo Tarsitano's "Earth Life" series emphasizes spiders and reptiles in their habitats. Rick Ayotte has specialized in ornithologically correct representations of birds. While the domed glass of a paperweight magnifies flowers and insects in a way that can make them appear to be life-size, Ayotte's birds necessarily read as miniatures.

Depictions of the natural world in the paperweight form are not limited to flowers and birds. With space travel and recent concerns about global ecology, the implied universe in paperweights has segued smoothly into the making of glass orbs as planets. James Lundberg's Worldweight accurately depicts the blue and green Earth seen from space. Josh Simpson is a well-known maker of planetary paperweights who creates conceptual, mysteriously layered spheres. A decade ago, Simpson, who is married to NASA astronaut Cady Coleman, began making large globes that he calls "megaworlds." Megaplanet, commissioned by the Corning Museum of Glass as the one-thousandth paperweight entering its collection, is around 13 inches in diameter and consists of some 30 layers. The solid, 107-pound sphere had to be slowly cooled (annealed) for months in a heated kiln.

As conceptual art, Simpson's Infinity Project is a rare ongoing documented action more typical of contemporary artists in other fields. Since 1976, Simpson has made "Planets"" and placed them in deliberately hidden locations around the world. Since 2000, he has distributed nearly 2,000 of them, some dropped from his airplane into unpopulated areas and others deliberately concealed by volunteer participants. He tries to place a minimum of two "Planets" a month. One is kept by a chosen volunteer who hides the other. Simpson posts the names of the volunteers and the (very) general locations of their "Planets" on his website, but not with the intention of initiating a treasure hunt. He likes to imagine the individuals who will discover his layered, cryptic, luminous orbs in the future. The base of each "Planet" in the series is engraved with an infinity symbol.

Simpson's program is adventurous and appealing and poetic, but it is innovative on only one side of the paperweight equation: the market. The "Planets" project bypasses collectors by giving the work away. Yet its originality no doubt titillates Simpson's market with hints of mystery and infinity. The production of the objects themselves remains traditional. That is the conundrum of paperweights. The field is so conservative that perhaps the most conservative glass maker in the world, Steuben Glass, does not produce paperweights. It has an extensive line of cute, curvy, animal-shaped hand coolers that could be used as paperweights, but no paperweight category.

Steuben recently commissioned a series of designs from the once well-nigh scandalous artist Kiki Smith, known for concepts addressing birth, AIDS, and battered women. For Steuben, Smith designed a realistic Cat with Daisy and a silver-seeded Eve's Apple (described by Steuben as "enchanting"). What is this blighting conservative transformation that the collectible glass field casts over all who venture near?

Is this the reason that adventurous and experimental glass sculptors shy away from calling their work paperweights? Hank Adams, an expressive portraitist; Beth Lipman, a maker of elaborate historic installations; and Sibylle Peretti, a subtle manipulator of postcolonial nostalgia, are among the diverse and acclaimed artists who have made small works that are not unlike paperweights, work that, in some cases, seems to play with the genre in an affectionate way. The young sculptor Kimberly Harty, who works with video and language as well as glass, told me that she loves the idea of paperweights and intends to make one that parodies popular 19th-century advertising paperweights. But not one of these artists is eagerly seeking to be known as a paperweight maker. Would it be embarrassing? Or would it simply be a waste of time?

Is There a Paperweight Aesthetic?

Tom Patti, a giant of glass sculpture, would no doubt cringe to hear himself described as a paperweight maker. However, even though he has worked on big architectural projects, he's best known for small, symmetrical, strikingly architectonic pieces with highly controlled optical effects, all consistent with the feeling and function of paperweights. Patti's relatively recent movement into tightly organized multicolored panels is provocative for the paperweights of the future.

Renowned artist Bertil Vallien is associated with a series of ovoid heads, reminiscent of Constantin Brancusi but with the addition of glass' translucence and evocative color. They're too large to be paperweights, but their subtlety and simplicity of form would be effective on a small scale.

Paperweights seem almost impervious to the range of postmodern ideas that have permeated other areas of art. There are few conceptual ones, virtually no postcolonial ones, nothing of a semiotic nature. So it's intriguing to consider the work of Walter Martin and Paloma Munoz. Their strategy of making snow globes--and even using commercially produced glass to do it--reflects their engagement with popular culture. The snowy, fantastical scenes within the globes draw on many sources: Chinese landscapes, miniatures from Persia, and anime. The figures and other elements are made of flat painted metal reminiscent of Victorian Pinchbeck weights. Quaint or charming at first glance, the scenes become increasingly dystopian on acquaintance. Gray, white, aqua, and black dominate the chilly palette. One work includes penguins, a naked woman (in the snow), a nurse, and a bear. The artists document the interiors of the globes photographically in long horizontal panoramas, almost the reverse of Mark Peiser rolling up his lampworked visions onto hot glass.

Martin and Muñoz find it difficult to meet the demand for their unique, six-inch-diameter globes, priced at $10,000. However, three designs in a series titled "Traveler" have been editioned in four-and-a-half-inch-diameter versions by Cereal Art in Philadelphia. They sell for $750 each. Clear orbs, miniature scenes, optical magnification, editions: sounds a lot like paperweights.

Many of the artists who dominate the paperweight field today entered it in the 1970s. Often a second generation of relatives, partners, and assistants carries on, relying heavily on the formulas developed by their mentors. As in classical ballet, there is something profound and satisfying in preserving ancient skills and forms. There will always be a place for well-made paperweights in established styles. Yet, as in dance, there is also a need for new ideas and exploration.

The dearth of challenging forms and imagery suggests that the studio paperweight movement--currently perhaps the least ambitious genre in all of studio crafts--has lost momentum. Will it slowly fade, like the production of classic weights in the 19th century? Why haven't more artists appropriated and manipulated tropes from the wonderful world of advertising paperweights? Why has no one utilized the high detail of sulphides to address edgy political themes, portraits of the American Idol judges, or the manga "cute" aesthetic? Where are the paperweights encasing flameworked reproductions of crack vials? The paperweight is a conservative medium, but it's impossible to believe that artists will allow that to limit their imaginations forever.

Art critic, author, editor, and independent curator L. ROBIN RICE teaches at the University of the Arts in Philadelphia.

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READERS RESPOND

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Posted 03/31/2009

Having just read in the recent Texas Paperweight Collectors Association Newsletter a response from Mr. Ebelhare to a reprint of the article by Ms. Robin Rice, I feel I, too, should respond. As a long-term lover and collector of paperweights, the fact is that not all paperweights are created equal, nor are any other branch of the arts immune from this fact .

Perhaps Ms. Rice should devote a little of her time with paperweight artists, and then, and only then, will she realize how difficult this medium is. Working with glass at around 1500 degrees, trying to design an encasement on an area averaging 9.5 square inches, the lampwork itself that may have taken several days to create and can be lost in seconds ! The financial loss also has to be considered.

We seem to have a younger generation almost completely dislocated from nature who live in a world of techno-babble. When a class of about 30 local kids was asked what hobbies they participated in after school hours, most answered video games, i-pods , and chatting to their friends on a cell phone. Only two played football , and one fished for trout. Keep in mind, these were children aged around 10-12 years!

At the the PCC Exhibition at Olympia in London in November 2006, I saw with considerable satisfaction the large number of people who had never seen fine paperweights but who were completely entranced by the pieces displayed! Yes, Ms. Rice, beauty does come into fine art. Personally I have no wish to view for example a portrait of the late Queen Mother, with a belly button for a nose and one eye in the wrong place -- though this would be seen as innovative and way-out !

It seems Ms Rice also states that all adventurous paperweight artists would shy away from paperweights as unadventurous or a waste of time. NO,NO,NO, Ms. Rice! They simply cannot make them to any high standard!

My late brother worked on security at the National Gallery Of Scotland in Edinburgh and on going round with him it became quite clear that the most asked question was not " How would you create something like that?" but "What on earth is that supposed to be?" Fine Art has a number of important positive functions none of which include spreading disillusion or division!

Critics, I am afraid, are at their happiest when they are whinging or decrying something. This is their raison d'etre; if it were not paperweights, it would be something else.

In the meantime I will continue with my love of nature and in particular paperweights .

-- Robert White ( Scottish collector )

Posted 12/2/2008

First, let me express my gratitude at being included in Robin Rice’s article Encasement in the Fall 2008 issue, however I would like to correct some misconceptions about my process in producing the Paperweight Vases.

As an early member of the Studio Glass movement, I was unaware of the roll-up technique and even if I had been, it would not have allowed the accuracy I sought for this series. Rather, I developed the flameworking process I employed in response to my desire for detail in the "Opaque Image" vessels (1970-1976) that preceded the "Paperweight Vases" (1976-1981). Focusing on naturalistic imagery, these bodies of work developed as I enhanced my understanding of making opal, crystal and colored glasses.

By 1976, I had created a glass clean and clear enough to explore the concepts of the Opaque Image vessels within crystal. Each piece was carefully planned and drawn on paper. Then, using hand-pulled canes of glass (also of my own formula), I used a torch to "draw" directly onto the surface of the un-inflated glass on the blowpipe. The image was built up in successive layers separated by casings of crystal. Most pieces had three individual layers of drawing, though areas of certain pieces have up to six layers of imagery (crystal in these areas was added with bits). These drawings were executed with distortion so that they would be in perfect perspective and registration once blown.

By using the vessel as a transparent canvas for three-dimensional drawings, I was able to reference interior volume in an optically distinct way from paperweights. Unlike a traditional paperweight where the view is clearest in the center, the vessel walls allowed the scene to unfold around an open interior. It was my intention that the viewer would relate to the piece as if he or she were within this inner space. At different stages in the series, I tried to see how much and what kind of space could be referenced--Can I imply a pond? What about meadow? How about the 2 miles of the road as it turns between the mountains? As Robin noted in the article, as the series progressed the subject matter became both more personal and abstract, eventually pushing me to new modes of expression.

Once again, I would like to commend Robin Rice on an interesting and thought-provoking article. I would also like to invite any questions about any of my processes or bodies of work at mark@markpeiser.com.

Best,

--Mark Peiser

Mark Peiser, who lives and works in Penland, North Carolina, is a founder of the Glass Art Society.



Posted 10/7/2008

I would like to respond to Ms. Rice's article. If the paperweight as an art form is indeed in decline due to the lack of ambition on the part of the paperweight maker and conservative nature of the paperweight collector, I believe then that Ms. Rice has tried to drive just one more nail into the coffin of a dying art with her article. She has not helped the paperweight or the paperweight artists but instead has closed doors that might have been available in the art glass world by denigrating the paperweight as an art form. With that in mind I will take out my crowbar and attempt to pry the nail from the coffin of my chosen profession, stand naked to the world with my pontil waving in the wind and proclaim to all who will listen: "I am a paperweight maker and I am proud of it!"

In the early stages of my glass career I was told by a gallery owner that if I wanted to be successful in the art world I would have to come up with a gimmick. As much as that statement exasperated me I did eventually find that it was the wisdom of a sage, and after some years of searching I finally found my gimmick. It is the paperweight. I was also informed by someone who I cannot even recall at the moment that nothing in glass is original. I have found that to be sage wisdom as well.

There are just a precious few individuals that have made the decision to choose the paperweight as their medium. A lofty crowd we are and we stand proud. There is also a group of intrepid collectors that has supported us, the chosen few who are courageous enough to call themselves paperweight collectors. We, the artists and the collectors, have stood tall and strong in the face of the art glass community and their self-appointed border collies that herd the hapless art glass collectors into the corral of the gallery only to be led to slaughter and churned into the fodder that is consumed by the fine art world. Paperweight makers have continued relentlessly in a quest for technical excellence and the collectors that have supported them are a savvy and demanding group that gives no quarter to the whining, self absorbed art school children who think they need not learn proper technique in order to convey their ever so poignant political statements. I applaud such collectors and the artists they support. They are a crowd that truly knows what they want and are able to make decisions based on their knowledge and research.

I find Ms. Rice's comments disrespectful to both the artists that have devoted a good part of their lives to this art form and certainly to the collectors who have tirelessly supported them. That said I suspect I must get down to brass tacks lest I appear just one more whining artist who cannot make it in the "real" art world, but has not yet acquiesced into the complacency of teaching to make ends meet.

Ms. Rice does not seem to understand the actual confines of paperweight design. A paperweight is a small round object and all the elements that make it a whole and cohesive design must fit within those confines. That restriction itself is quite a challenge for any designer not to mention the consideration that the magnifying dome has on the proportions of the actual elements that are encased within the finished paperweight. When the well known Kiki Smith was commissioned to design a series of paperweights for Steuben Glass Ms. Rice asserts that the paperweight genre squashed her creative abilities. I agree. It seems evident that Steuben had no idea how to design a paperweight themselves and they enlisted one who they thought would be a cutting edge designer to take over that task. Ms. Smith, who was not familiar with the confinements of paperweight design, was completely flummoxed by the project and fell back on tried and true schmaltz to fulfill her obligations. No disrespect is intended toward either Stueben or Ms. Smith, it's just that neither of them were paperweight designers. I suspect that it should have been left to professionals.

As I mentioned previously a paperweight is a small round object with a flat bottom. It is the "canvas" that the paperweight maker works within. There are specific technical and design requirements involved in fitting all those elements within that small canvas that one needs to consider. Ms. Rice I suspect would ponder why one should not expand that space or change the shape of the finished object to accomplish what the artist wants. I raise the question as to why the fine art world accepts paintings that are done on square, flat canvases and not some wildly new form such as crumpled newspaper suspended on thin airplane cable from the ceiling of the gallery with fans blowing on them to reveal every side of the installation in an ever so much more interesting experience of paint and paper. It would be ground breaking; however, upon further reflection, I am confident this has been tried--and the gallery owners must have gone wild!

Ms. Rice seems to want hand-wrought expression in the work of the paperweight maker that stems from contemporary culture. I see contemporary culture to be a lifestyle that is enamored with technology and has little to do with hand-wrought expression. We are inundated with technology. Computers, cell phones and all manner of machine-made items dominate contemporary culture. We expect all to be perfect. A photograph is not worthy until it has been Photoshopped into absolute perfection. Children do their homework on laptops. (will penmanship become a new art form one day?) People cannot navigate without a GPS in their car or MapQuest to tell them what direction to go. Hand-wrought expression of contemporary life? I think no one cares. Hand-wrought expression became passe when tie-dyed T-shirts and the VW Micro bus went out of style. We are a society of techno-geeks that worships gadgets that are machine-made. Women become rapturous over Fashion Week, yet models can no longer remain upright on the runways--designers have pushed the envelope so far with their shoes that "shoes" no longer serve their original purpose--they have become an approved art form.

So, I propose that the paperweight in contemporary culture could be a perfect and ground breaking creation. If the design is that of the 19th century and the technology is executed in the 21st century's technical perfection then we have created a bridge from our present time to that of another. Such genius needs to be rewarded not chided as stale and smothering. I think those old stogy collectors that have been buying paperweights for years might have known something that the rest of the world might have missed.

Certain French factories have ceased production of their large annual paperweight editions while other glass houses devoted to paperweights have closed their doors. This leaves the smaller concerns--and the individual makers--to continue on with this glass form tradition that sprang forth in the 1840s. When all is said and done it might be best for critics and galleries to cease MapQuesting collectors away from their chosen destination. Perhaps the flocks will graze in their preferred field and ignore the border collies snapping at their heels. Just perhaps the art of the paperweight will survive; and--just perhaps--some of us will even continue to use flat-based, cushion-shaped glass objects with ever-fascinating interiors to hold down the stacks of papers on our desks to keep them safe from the breezes that drift through our open windows.

--Drew Ebelhare

Drew Ebelhare is a Colorado-based paperweight maker who specializes in the millefiori technique.