Brass Temple Bells

Santa Cruz, 1977-1982

During the summer of 1977, after getting my BA in psychology, I took a temp job with Pacific Bell. I was trained to make basic repairs and, when needed, convert those old four-wire telephone lines to the new, plug-and-play phone outlets. Every morning I’d pick up a stack of work orders at the office, and drive my PacBell van all over Santa Cruz County. Grass, cocaine, sex… there was nothing people wouldn’t give for a new Princess phone, or an extra jack in their bathroom.

During my first days on the job I finished my assignments early, and hurried back to the dispatch desk for more. On Thursday, one of the repairmen took me aside. “We don’t get paid extra for doing twice the work,” the old-timer told me, “You’re just making the rest of us look bad.” Later that day, I followed him to the glade and swimming hole where he and the other drivers hid their vans once they’d finished their quota.

Sometimes I joined my fellow workers for an afternoon smoke and swim. But often I’d drive home, and spend the afternoon hours building sculptures. These were offbeat assemblages of wood and leather, brass fittings, random pieces of fur, found objects, textiles, and small bells. All were meant to be touched, played with, manipulated. Inspired by Alexander Calder, whose mobiles enchanted me, I thought of my works as abstract “busy boxes”—crib toys for adults.

My career as an artist was short-lived, though I did achieve a bit of success as a graphic designer. Ultimately it made more sense to turn my energy toward writing, which has always been a passion. The appeal of visual art, I realized, can be purely subjective—but everyone loves a good story.

But I missed doing sculpture. Twenty years later, by then a full-time writer living in Oakland, I had an idea: I’d rent a studio, and start making art again. A no-frills workspace on Adeline Street came up on Craigslist, and I pounced. For decades, I’d been schlepping my art supplies—including this string of bells—from place to place. At last they had a home. Who knew what I might create?

It didn’t take. As the months passed I visited my studio maybe once a week, producing virtually nothing. Sad, but true. The muses that once inspired me had fled—or changed direction. So… No more busy boxes for me. Just stories. I ring the bells that still can ring.