The Womb of the Unborn Soldier

72"h x 14"d, footprint 48". Glass, fused, etched, cast, kiln-fired paints, wood base, assembled
To see a larger image of the work, click on the image.

This sculpture is one of the most emotional works that I have ever fabricated. It is based on a book that I had illustrated in 1969 titled Humane Anatomy. I was a graphic design student at the time making a difficult transition in my own life and struggling with the conflicts in the country during the height of the Vietnam War. My father retired that year from 30 years of service in the U.S. Army, having served in 3 wars. I had just resigned my commission in the Army ROTC after more than two years. I could no longer promote the ideals of the military nor the rationalization of my government's actions. I had recently returned from the March on Washington to end the war and devoted my remaining years on campus openly working to end the war. To say I was in conflict would be an understatement. The drawings in the book were a reflection on a right of passage. A son, born to a military family, who always expected to follow in his father's footsteps, decides instead that he will be an artist.

The horrors of war, the lost hopes and expectations of families for their sons and daughters. Of promises lost and lives cut short. The hope of possibilities and the sadness of complete loss. I chose a different path and only rarely looked back.

Fast forward 20 years to graduate school in Vermont. My explorations in glass needed a focus, when I came across that book of illustrations in a box. Each one of these glass panels is a page from that book executed in fused, slumped and painted glass. They are life sized. The piece stands on a 4' square wooden cross with a chain of barbed wire and a white glass dog tag. On the chest, a red white and blue ribbon supports the glass skull of a newborn child. Inside the womb is the yet to be born child-soldier of the next generation.

A few years ago I was invited to show this piece at the southeast Ohio Art Center in Athens, Ohio where I, like so many others, had worked to end the war years before.

The title of the show was Artists from the Vietnam War. I was one of the few people in the nationally juried show who was not a veteran. On that night we all shared a common purpose. To exorcise our particular demons. I wish I could describe the emotion of the opening night. Suffice it to say, their was not a dry eye in the house.