When I was growing up in Maine, the best hill for sledding was just beyond my backyard at Joey’s house. Everyone we knew would come when the snow was good and sled until we were shivering too much to steer.
Reproducing the shape in glass held together with machine screws is all about tension that is compounded against the memories of bombing down that hill on a sled that twists that fond childhood recollection into something more sinister.
After showing the piece a couple of times at college museums in Maine, I found a buyer in NY, but the sled broke into many pieces in the back of a rented truck on the West Side Highway.
