The Last of the Glass

“I just saw your work in Ventana Monthly” an acquaintance said as we crossed paths on the mountain trail. My focus switched from the surrounding nature, quickly to asking, “what work?”
see article here


Having the ambient sound like that of an idling jet airplane, a glassblowing furnace burns, keeping the raw material molten 24/7, the flame has a constant feed from a two inch gas line, the needle on the gas meter in a steady spin. Working temperature for glass is around 2100 degrees plus or minus. The temperature is raised to 2400 degrees for about 8 hours while filling (“charging”) the furnace with silica sand, potash, soda, and lime (“batch”). Maintaining the correct temperature during this charging process is critical in order to sustain a high quality glass. Tending the furnace is the foundational concern for a glass studio, yet only a small part what is behind the actual creating.


From practical making of tumblers, perfume bottles, vases, etc. to “impractical” work of sculpture, wearable glass, and “the glass canvas”, the work has been a labor of love for me. Loud noise, heat, and hard work fed me for about 14 years, until I sold my equipment/studio in 2009.

My version of having children was the nurturing of a studio and the work it produced. My nest is now empty, though the pieces live on.
the kids

Out in the world, the glass pieces have their own lives in private collections, museums, municipal collections, hospital collections, etc. A kitchen window filled from top to bottom with reflection of the colors I’ve chosen, an altar-like setting honoring the work. One piece was broken at the fault of an earthquake within a week of going “home”. Another art show an entire shelf of “crème de la crème” vases were wiped out. In fact as I remember it, at each art show at least one piece would somehow get broken~ “The sacrifice”, I would casually comment.

The Ventana Monthly article is advertising an event this weekend May 21 & 22, 2016 to benefit Focus on the Masters. “Where Art Lives” A self guided tour to homes in the community that house art. Many pieces that I have created are living in these collections.

When you go on the tour please be sure to say “hi” to the kids.

Get your tickets here

Never Forget- Never Remember

The nebulous date of my brother’s death has been floating around as “sometime in the beginning of September” for a long time.

I can look back for years to the first hints of autumn and see indications of my unrest- ending of jobs, moving households, adrenaline hits of choice, as well as underlying depression- around this time of year. I read in my daily writing “deep, deep, something going on, don’t know what it is”.  The scribble echoing concern, a disturbance that runs through many of my journal’s end of summer entries.


It comes and it goes, as do the unconscious gestures I’ve made in order keep this grief at arms length.  Or to give it life- senseless expression out into the world, a relief from the tension, letting off steam.

Just this week a mystery was solved.  September 1, 1966.  The date of Danny’s death fished out of a file.  The veil lifted unto the next clue in this process of life.  In this process of untangling a death.

Mom’s story about my brother’s death So Young.



Astrology footnote:  I celebrate as Saturn finishes strong this last degree of Scorpio- Thank you mom for digging into the death certificates regardless of my being “too eager about death”.  The eclipse (11:41pm September 12, 2015) exact degree Danny’s rising – 20 Virgo. My natal rising being 19 Virgo and my mom’s natal moon at 18 Virgo(7th house) PLUS.  This TedTalk reeks of what I see in the sky now.  As astrology continues to bring to me an awareness of choice.

Thank you for reading.

We are all connected.


Startled by a large dark mass in the distance. I get closer and see, no it isn’t a bear
-it is THE bear-

The one that stopped me short

thought, word, action
blame, projection


-one swift swipe of a well hibernated paw at the cave entrance-


Words, sounds, expression

stuck in the throat.

Study War No More

50 years ago.

“Load up!” The familiar command to hop in the back seat. Business in town.

Bud’s exhale “God damn hippies” combats my silent intrigue as we pass so many sitting on the wall. Three miles, though an entire atmosphere away from home.


The mood is lifted as Bud’s head flips acknowledgment toward on old friend walking beneath the arcade.

Attention now, the tone of a chant streaming through the car’s open window. Peace signs, held by people trickling down the steps of the Bank of America. “Hey Bud! There’s grandma and grandad!” A sudden acceleration throwing our backs to the seat as we head out.

Link to the inspiration for this blog post: MLK Audio
Link to another article on this subject: “Turbulent 60’s”


I once made a pact that I would do something.
As I write these words I am fulfilling that agreement.
It feels lame.
An excuse.
All of those great ideas blown by.
Why didn’t I catch them.
Make myself sit.
Now on this eve of September 30th.
A true challenge.
I admit it.
I accept it.

I, Teal Rowe, have published four posts in September.

Thank you for holding me to it.


No way to cut it off at the pass nor nip it in the bud.
It is here.
How is it going?

The Pool- Tale for a Cancer

Cancer-  ruled by the moon-symbolized by the crab- cardinal- water sign.
I have always loved that my sun is in Cancer.  Home, nurturing, a sensitive emotional side, are typical qualities of Cancer that I enjoy, rescuer, smotherer, worrier, are others that I sometimes loath.
This summer I have had the experience of truly soothing my Cancer sun.  The balm is big.  An olympic size swimming pool filled by mineral water flowing from a natural spring. A place where I float, tread, dance.  
As if after having being starved, my Cancer sun is nourished.  The light of the moon pulls me down, deeper.  The past, all that leads to this moment, vanished into the current of my treading legs and arms.  A process that in order to be buoyant, I let go.  Loosening of the claws in order to sink to depths beyond measure.
A form of nurturance.  
My own.

The List

Sky through the window, Bathtub,
Earth outside the door.
Simply, easily, granted. Thanks.


A long hallway, the way out was a doorway that had been tiled down to the opening size of a shoe box.  Clean, colorful, Moorish tiles.  An exquisitely crafted tile job down to the rounded edges of a sill that lined a gap just too small for me to fit through.

A super compassionate woman at an information window said that the small portal was the only exit.  Thinking there was some trick I would use to fit through, I wanted to finagle a way out.  I went back and forth in my mind, figuring and looking at the opening to see if my ideas would work.  I think the woman sensed my shut in irritation as we were dialoging, until she kindly assured me that there was “no other way”.

In a surge of discontent I conjured up the power to loudly scream “BULLSHIT!”- simultaneously a door appeared.

I opened that door to find another door, then another, and another- I finally saw oak trees through a large, beautiful, open, glass door.

Through obstacles in the way, through other peoples truths, sometimes one just has to call bullshit and go for it.

Maricopa Hwy