Inspiration strikes
Over the years, Justin’s poor health has been both a wellspring of creativity and a real pain in the butt. Late in the summer, he spent a week in the hospital for a pair of catheterization procedures.
“I know a day is going to come when I don’t get better. My heart is going to get me, or my lungs. Or I might get hit by a truck.”
The worst times for him are when he’s too sick to get to his workshop.
“I can’t get here. I can’t be here, and it’s hard. It’s a bitch,” he said, choking up, as he sat in his workshop in a handmade rocking chair he picked up in South Jersey somewhere.
“I’m only happy when I'm here. Sometimes I just come and sit, just to be here. Some days you come down, and all you can do is sweep the floor, because nothing happens.
“But there's other days where you're sitting here ...”
With that, Justin stood up, walked across the room and took something down off the wall that he’d only just begun working on.
It was “Blue,” or what was left of him. This was one of Justin’s earliest critters, but for one reason or another, Justin had become disenchanted with the piece and decided to take it apart, something he routinely does with his work.
Justin held the face in his hands and quietly studied it for a moment. It was a chair bottom, painted a light blue, with a hole drilled for a mouth. Reaching around, he found a tangled oxygen tube, the end of which fit perfectly into the mouth hole. Moving quickly to another corner of the workshop, Justin grabbed what looked like a curved piece of moulding or a brace for a shelf.
The nose.
“That’s something that can’t happen any way but all by itself, and that ain’t me,” Justin said, as the new face began to take shape.
“That’s what’s in the air, what’s in the spirit. People say, ‘What the hell goes through your mind?’ ”
He positioned the nose just where he wanted it, then rummaged for a hammer and some nails.
Bang. Bang. Bang, Bang. Bang.
“Don’t mind me. I hammer like an old lady.”
Thirty-two bangs later, Justin tossed the hammer on the shop table.
“And that’s a done piece,” he announced.
It took him almost as long to find a place for it on the wall as it did for him to bring “Blue” back to life.
There was a little more life in Justin’s face, too, at the end of it.
“I’ve told all my kids, ‘If you find me lying dead on this floor, understand that I was the happiest sonofabitch in the world,’ because this is heaven.
“This is where I belong.”
Inspiration strikes
Over the years, Justin’s poor health has been both a wellspring of creativity and a real pain in the butt. Late in the summer, he spent a week in the hospital for a pair of catheterization procedures.
“I know a day is going to come when I don’t get better. My heart is going to get me, or my lungs. Or I might get hit by a truck.”
The worst times for him are when he’s too sick to get to his workshop.
“I can’t get here. I can’t be here, and it’s hard. It’s a bitch,” he said, choking up, as he sat in his workshop in a handmade rocking chair he picked up in South Jersey somewhere.
“I’m only happy when I'm here. Sometimes I just come and sit, just to be here. Some days you come down, and all you can do is sweep the floor, because nothing happens.
“But there's other days where you're sitting here ...”
With that, Justin stood up, walked across the room and took something down off the wall that he’d only just begun working on.
It was “Blue,” or what was left of him. This was one of Justin’s earliest critters, but for one reason or another, Justin had become disenchanted with the piece and decided to take it apart, something he routinely does with his work.
Justin held the face in his hands and quietly studied it for a moment. It was a chair bottom, painted a light blue, with a hole drilled for a mouth. Reaching around, he found a tangled oxygen tube, the end of which fit perfectly into the mouth hole. Moving quickly to another corner of the workshop, Justin grabbed what looked like a curved piece of moulding or a brace for a shelf.
The nose.
“That’s something that can’t happen any way but all by itself, and that ain’t me,” Justin said, as the new face began to take shape.
“That’s what’s in the air, what’s in the spirit. People say, ‘What the hell goes through your mind?’ ”
He positioned the nose just where he wanted it, then rummaged for a hammer and some nails.
Bang. Bang. Bang, Bang. Bang.
“Don’t mind me. I hammer like an old lady.”
Thirty-two bangs later, Justin tossed the hammer on the shop table.
“And that’s a done piece,” he announced.
It took him almost as long to find a place for it on the wall as it did for him to bring “Blue” back to life.
There was a little more life in Justin’s face, too, at the end of it.
“I’ve told all my kids, ‘If you find me lying dead on this floor, understand that I was the happiest sonofabitch in the world,’ because this is heaven.
“This is where I belong.”
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