The Trials and Tribulations of Handling my First Piece of Museum Glass
I’ve fingerpainted in front of hundreds at the MCA. I played piano in church worship bands regularly for over a decade. Whether it be a room of friends, family, or complete strangers, I barely blink anymore when it comes to doing anything in front of a crowd.
So when I tell you that working with a 25 ⅝” x 36 ¾” pane of UV resistant museum glass was the most anxiety-inducing process of my art career, I am not exaggerating.
After a group show last September, a lovely woman named Judith purchased my piece “Rest” that I had hung in an upcycled green frame. The piece was priced at $1,600, so I was very excited and honored that she thought my work was worth that investment. But even before Judith made her offer, I had resolved that, in the event that “Rest” sold, I would go out and get a nice piece of museum glass to put the final (and expensive) bow on one of my favorite works.
Most of my art is made on paper, and so is very susceptible to sun damage. Museum glass is made to block UV rays and diminish bouncing light, so adding the glass to the frame was going to be my way of sending off such a sizable investment in good conscience.
So after “Rest” was purchased, I moseyed my way over to Frame Chicago, hearing through the grapevine that they were a good place to get museum glass quickly. I was greeted by two young women and a lovely older gentleman with dark skin and white, white hair, who I later realized were part of the family that owned the shop!
They were so friendly and helpful and way faster than I thought they would be. I thought I’d have to wait for a few days for my glass to be finished. But the man asked for the measurements I’d like cut, and the team in the back had it ready between two pieces of cardboard within 15 minutes. I was very excited, so I was quite happy to accept the white haired man’s offer to carry the glass to the trunk of my car.
In hindsight, I’m glad the following happened the way it did, because it really calibrated my expectations for handling museum glass. I’m used to working with craft glass, like colored glass rods or panes of glass made for windows. With those, you can actually throw them around quite a bit; even though they’re glass, they’re surprisingly sturdy and easy to handle so long as you don’t drop them.
But as this lovely gentleman gently flipped the cardboard-covered museum glass horizontal, ready to place it carefully into the dog-bed cushioned trunk of my CR-V, it quietly snapped in his hands. As I focused my energy on not letting my shock show on my face, he said “Huh, haven’t done that in a few years! Let’s go back inside and cut you another piece. :)”
A few years? This happens all the time and is even expected?? I spent almost $400 on glass that I could break at any moment??? I continued to pour energy into my obviously unfazed facade as the Frame Chicago team cut my glass again, sandwiched it between more cardboard, and once again brought it outside to place in the trunk of my car.
This time a dreadlocked glass cutter laid the glass flat in my trunk, successfully flipping it horizontal without breaking it. They turned to face me, looked me in my eyes, and wished me “Godspeed” as they closed the trunk door and headed back inside the shop.
I ran a red light at 3pm on the drive home I was so nervous. When I got home, I procrastinated for hours on taking the glass out of my trunk because I didn’t want to risk touching it. I tried a million different ways to jerry-rig some kind of flat plywood transportation situation until I realized they were all overengineered and ill-advised. Working up the testosterone to push through my heart palpitations, I managed to slowly mimic the dreadlocked person’s motions for handling the museum glass. I rotated the glass vertically from the trunk, propped it gently on the ground, opened all the doors I needed to, pincered the corners of the cardboard with tactically dialed in pressure precision, then slowly carried the delicate pane out of the garage and up the stairs to my second floor condo. My grip muscles and quads were on fire after the slow-motion journey, but the glass successfully arrived in my office in one piece and in good condition. The second I was finished I sat on the floor and yelled like a stressed sea lion.
Even though I had gotten the glass into my house, I now had to get it out of the cardboard it came in and put it in my frame. I procrastinated on that for a few days. But at the end of the day, life is about the doing I guess, so with unenthusiastic resolve I brought all my framing supplies to the living room and got everything ready to put the museum glass in place.
Removing the cardboard, instantly my hands began to sweat. Profusely. An excellent thing to have happen when preparing to touch a heavy, slippery surface with sharp corners and edges. I stepped back and paced around my living room for five minutes, flapping my wrists to dry my hands while hyping myself up with pre-game self-talk. The only thing to do is execute.
In one fluid motion I pincered the glass, walked it over to the disassembled green frame, and gently propped it inside the notched holding area. My measurements were perfect and the glass did not break. I laid myself out on the floor, adrenaline wracking my body as I waited for my anxiety to wear off. My inner sea lion once again reemerged.
This is a flash photo of the museum glass in the frame taken by my phone with the flash directly pointed at the glass. The only light reflected in the glass from the photo flash is the little white circle in the center of the photo! Very impressive.
But once the museum glass was in the frame, it was clear that the anxiety and the headache was worth it. The art piece was so beautiful beneath the clarity of the specialty glass. Looking at the frame, you could hardly tell there was glass there at all, and even nearby ceiling lights looked like faint stars when reflected off its surface.
Plus with the glass in the frame, I was far less worried about accidentally breaking it. It was being braced on all edges at all times, granting far fewer opportunities for coincidence to challenge its structural integrity.
Is there a moral to this story? Maybe. The end of it is that Judith was thrilled to receive her new art piece, and I was thrilled to present my work with a heightened level of artistic professionalism. Though if you made it this far down the web page, the moral of the story is probably that if you have a deeply anxiety-inducing experience, no matter how ridiculous or mundane, push through it so that when you’re done you can write a somewhat entertaining blog post for your friends and family to read in their free time.
Hope you enjoyed this little story-time!
❤️
Leave a comment below if something stuck out to you, and even if you don’t I’ll be posting another cheeky art blog at the end of next month.
Cheers!