I had known of the work of Paolo Venini and long considered him the most advanced and avant garde colored art glass, artist of Murano. However, soon before I was to leave for Italy I was saddened to learn that this unique man had died, and that I would not be able to meet him.

The interview with de Santillana, held in early December of 1960, was met with favor. My presentation consisted solely of my experiments in two dimensional fused glass, which I had done at Cranbrook, that were planned as windows. Apparently Venini had been interested in developing similar techniques for architectural applications, and he wanted to see what may be possible for the firm in that area. Speaking about what I might do at Venini, de Santillana directed me to include commercial considerations in at least some of the work I undertook at Venini, along with whatever aesthetic ventures I might choose.

The direction that I actually took (three-dimensional forms) was quite different, however, from the work we initially presumed I would be doing. When I left Venini I was struck by that irony.

I came to Venini with no previous knowledge of or experience in blown glass. There was very little going on in the United States in glass at that time, and, frankly, I had no particular interest in three dimensional forms.

I came to Venini with no previous knowledge of or experience in blown glass. There was very little going on in the United States in glass at that time, and, frankly, I had no particular interest in three dimensional forms. My education had been in painting with a side interest in possible new directions in the use of fibers as fine art media. Also, I must add that I knew only a few words of Italian, and there were only two persons at Venini who spoke English, the director and his secretary. At best my ability to communicate verbally in Italian was extremely meager, and did not improve appreciably. However, I was fortunate to work with a glass master ("Checco" Ongaro) with whom I developed an uncanny and very successful non-verbal rapport.

It was decided that I would start out by observing the glass masters as they worked, to familiarize myself with their techniques and the process of working with glass at Venini. The furnace room glassworkers were informed to expect my presence as an observer, and I spent every day of my first few weeks at the factory, from early morning to closing. I moved from one work station (glass master's bench) to another watching the differing projects and different processes. The workmen had no clear idea what I was doing there… and, looking back on it now, at the time I don't think I really knew either!

The furnace room would close by mid­ afternoon, and I would move on to another department, say, the grinding room, to watch what was going on there; and then on I'd go elsewhere.

During those first weeks, I also spent time at the Glass Technical Research Center, which was not far from the factory. The Center had a small museum with examples of Greek and Roman glass as well as a good library. I looked through many of the picture books to "see what had been done in glass".

By the end of the second week, a most marvelous and magical process commenced within my aesthetic-conceptual mind's eye: idea upon idea for blown objects began to appear in my vision…

By the end of the second week, a most marvelous and magical process commenced within my aesthetic-conceptual mind's eye: idea upon idea for blown objects began to appear in my vision, not particularly from what I had recently been seeing, but rather from what I had observed as " mistakes " , "mishaps" and "blunders". The goal that I felt crystallizing within me was an aspiration to explore new directions and concepts in blown glass (rather than two-dimensional work).

My not knowing the language prompted me to make working drawings with a format much like that of a comic strip. Each of the drawings or "frames" depicted what I conjectured to be the various sequential steps needed to fabricate the piece I wanted to attempt. Also, I began making scale models in clay of the proposed pieces, which I hoped would speak visually for themselves. These were my only form of communication, since I was not able to verbally explain my ideas.

Following the Christmas holidays, I approached the director with a series of drawings and a clay model and asked permission to undertake my first adventure in free blown glass. He directed me to the Venini's grand master, Maestro "Boboli".

I arrived early that morning in the furnace room, carrying my clay model and drawings. The Maestro was involved in completing a piece, and, knowing that he had been advised to expect me, I waited quietly until he had finished.

When he finished with what he was doing, he looked at my clay model and drawings, stood up and commenced a tirade in Italian. The entire furnace room went silent. He finished and with a gesture of his hand waved me away. Not understanding a word of what had been said, but feeling his anger, I simply stood there bewildered. I thought to myself: "My drawings make sense, the model makes sense. “Why the problem?" The room remained silent, every one staring at me. I had never experienced such embarrassment before… or since!

I picked up my model and drawings and left the room.

De Santillana was away, so I went to his secretary to relate what had just occurred. In turn, she sent for one of the workmen to get an explanation of the incident. Upon hearing his report, she went silent and pale, staring at me. I told her that I knew that what she had to say to me was not good news, but that I wanted her to explain to me exactly what she had been told. This is how she explained what the grand master had said: "For weeks you have stood over us like a bird. We have worked for centuries to create a perfect symmetry in glass. Now you bring your ideas, which have no symmetry, to insult us. You don't speak our language, either in Italian or in glass. Go away!"

Thanking her, I went upstairs to my studio to think. Not long afterwards the secretary knocked at my door with a message for me from "Checco" Ongaro, who was at that time the youngest glassblower at Venini to be granted status as a glass master and who, as "Boboli's" apprentice, would later come to replace him. (I recalled that as I had been showing my proposed piece to the Grand Maestro, I had sensed that the young master to "Boboli's" left had glanced up several times at my drawings and model as he continued working.) She said that the young Maestro would like to meet with me that afternoon after the workmen had gone for the day, and to kindly bring my clay model and drawings. I agreed and she relayed my reply to him, “Checco".

My meeting with him that afternoon was a mute one. As he looked at my frame­ by-frame drawings, he drew a question mark in the air over one of them and then quickly signaled a switch between two others, thereby suggesting an alternative to the procedure I was proposing for making the piece. Understanding his thinking, I agreed. As we were "talking", his helpers suddenly arrived. Smiling, he said something to me in Italian and motioned for us to move to the work bench. (Later I had someone translate what he had said to me: "Let's give this weird bird a try!").

Even though the glass batching is considered "bad" (stringy) by late in the afternoon and certainly not ideal for making such a form as I was proposing, he began. He worked with clear glass, and on the fourth attempt he achieved a form which was a reasonable facsimile of my model. The pieces would be available the next morning after annealing, and I arrived back at 5:30 a.m. to carry them to my studio.

When de Santillana returned he was informed of what had happened, both with Maestro "Boboli" as well as with the young Maestro, "Checco". The grand master stayed away from the factory two days in response to learning about his former apprentice's success in completing the form that I was after. When I showed de Santillana those first pieces that had been made, he saw promise in them. Since the Grand Master would obviously have none of it, I was asked which of the other masters I would like to work with. I was not hesitant: it would be "Checco".

My presence in the furnace room was extremely confusing for the workmen. Class lines were very rigid, and although they had worked with designers such as the Italian architect Carlo Scarpa, they had had no previous experience with an outsider being brought into their midst as I had been. Titles and jobs precluded much intermixing, and for a young American artist to work alongside them was a disconcertingly new experience.

Although I was both a special guest of the firm as well as of the Italian Government (by virtue of my fellowship ), and, as far as they were concerned, in a class above them, my actions contradicted that higher station. I was in the furnace room every day, sweat soaked as they were, and yet I would have lunch with the director at his separate table and then go to his office for espresso and cognac afterwards to discuss my ideas. But then back to the furnace room for more sweating. I would change from my work clothes at the end of the day and frequently be seen leaving the island for Venice in the director's private launch rather than using public transportation. A lot of mixed class messages, and very confusing, indeed.

Initially the workers acknowledged me only with a circumspect nod of the head, but later I found myself greeted by "Bongiorno, Professori" or "Maestro Professori". Even though they knew I didn't speak Italian, they sensed (rightly so) that I enjoyed a sense of humor, and by the second year I was nick-named "Tommaso Sternini". This later jokingly evolved into my being dubbed "Sternini di Venini". I was included in their after work gatherings at the local bar for wine, bread and "sea snacks", and bonds of true friendship developed amongst several of us.

Once it became apparent to the workers that my designs were producing results pleasing to the director, human nature what it is, it wasn't unusual for individuals to offer their assistance with my projects, and something of a "band wagon" atmosphere ensued. There was a sense of anticipation about what new things I would think up for them to try, which for many was a welcome break in the tedium of their routine jobs.

I now fully realize the serendipity of events surrounding my work at Venini. 

I now fully realize the serendipity of events surrounding my work at Venini. Paolo Venini's death had left the firm virtually bereft of a designer; my own naiveté and eagerness to explore the medium led me into zealous experimentation; and the young Maestro Francesco "Checco" Ongaro's own efforts to prove his abilities led him to stick out his neck by collaborating with me. The timing was just right making germane a situation of exploration and accomplishment. We each saw it as an opportunity for ourselves... and we all leapt in.

As the first year moved into the second, it became very obvious to "Checco" and myself that we were working as a unit together. He never knew what I might bring down from my studio as a new challenge for him, and his eyes were always bright with expectation as I approached his bench. The more the challenge, the greater intensity of his effort. It is obvious to me that I could never have accomplished what I did at Venini without this very special silent understanding of one another.

Alvar Aalto, who had been a long-time friend of Paolo's, and Tapio Wirkkala, Finnish designer, were in Venice for an international design conference. They visited the Venini factory and de Santillana showed them some of my work. I didn't happen to be there when they visited and de Santillana later related to me that they were most supportive of my efforts. This was obviously a blessing, because I was given his "go ahead" to do anything I wished.

By the second year, I was really into it: endless ideas, countless flops along with the successes. There was an ongoing awareness of no end of possibilities and of as yet unexplored techniques. It was a time of great zeal and accomplishment within my life.

By the second year, I was really into it: endless ideas, countless flops along with the successes. There was an ongoing awareness of no end of possibilities and of as yet unexplored techniques. It was a time of great zeal and accomplishment within my life.

The Venini firm chose to present six of my works as their entry for the XXXI Biennial in 1962. I was asked to choose six works that I felt to be a statement of my efforts in glass. I arranged the pieces in a mockup of the case in which they would be shown and the works were delivered to the Venice pavilion on the Biennial grounds.

Prior to the opening of the exhibition, the director received a call (I happened to be in his office at the time) from the firm's St. Mark's Square showroom with a message: the panel of judges had awarded the Gold Medal for Glass to the six Venini works, and they wanted to know the designer's name (it was obvious to them that the six pieces had been done by one designer). De Santillana summoned the Venini launch, and off we went to the pavilion, wondering amongst other things whether the pieces had been placed in the case as I had specified.

When we arrived we saw a glob of glue on the case... but no Gold Medal. Back at the factory, de Santillana placed a call to the judges and was told (as he later related to me) that when the panel had learned that a non-Italian had designed the works, they retracted the medal on the basis that it would have been unprecedented for a non­Italian to receive the award.

After my first year, which was supported by the Italian Government grant, I was retained for a year by Venini as Resident Guest Designer, my salary being paid by the firm. I was the first person to hold that position. At the end of the second year I was asked to stay on a similar basis as Resident Guest Designer, but I chose not to remain. My decision to leave Venini and any work with glass was based on the decision to concentrate my efforts on the fiber sculpture media that I was evolving at that time. I had been making some fiber pieces on my own while I was there, and was very excited by the prospect of what new ground I might break with that medium.

Before leaving, I had ordered that one piece (an experiment of a new technique) should be destroyed. It was not, however, for several years later I encountered it in a Venini showroom In New York City. Upon inspecting the object, I found the Venini stamp and inquired about its history. I was told that it was a “collector’s item” done by and American designer. I smiled upon leaving, thanked the person and thought to myself “What irony!”

During the course of my stay at Venini a total of three pieces did not reappear from the annealing oven. We had our suspicions that they had been stolen.

One vivid recollection I have is of de Santillana and myself being invited to lunch at the villa of a countess on the mainland. I was struck by the uniqueness and elegance of the set of drinking glasses on our table ( I was later to learn that they were Byzantine… “My God! What if I had broken one of them?!”). My response to seeing/beholding them was to concentrate my efforts on designing glasses that would be similarly singular and timeless as those appeared to me to be: how optimistic!

From the outset, Madame Venini did not condone my presence as a designer at her late husband's firm, and was reputed to have called the colors I used in my work "colori triste" (sad colors).

Venini was quite well known for its lighting fixtures. Handsome as they were, from my view they were "decorative," which I don't mean derogatorily. I simply decided to attempt to evolve a small group of lamps that could exist more as aesthetic objects in themselves. I also wanted in some way to incorporate the Venetian tradition of mirroring in that group.

Since I left Venini I have not worked with glass.

James Huston, then design director of Steuben Glass, who had seen my Biennial group, contacted me soon after I returned to the United States, asking if I would be interested in doing a limited edition of crystal pieces for them. At that time I was not interested in the offer, because of my stead­ fast commitment to pursuing my new fiber sculpture media.

During the opening reception of the new Venini showroom in New York City in the late 70s, de Santillana presented me with an offer to return to Venini to create a limited edition series. The series would be numbered and signed by me as an entirely new collection. My response was immediately positive, and we subsequently met in New York a number of times to work out the details of the contract. I was placed on a retainer by de Santillana, and I arranged for a sabbatical leave from my teaching duties. However, our agreement was altered at the last minute in ways that I found unacceptable, and I very regretfully refused to go.

After the collapse of arrangements for new works for Venini, in 1981 I prepared a group of drawings for a limited edition in crystal to present to Steuben Glass. Mr. Huston was no longer with Steuben, and I had an interview with the new director, whose name I do not recall. Our meeting was a brief one. He looked at the drawings and listened to my description of the new techniques I intended to explore. Basically he said three things in response: that I couldn't draw, that the works would be very costly, and that my work was "too individual." To the contrary, however, I truly feel that those pieces would have been a most splendid offering.

All my artistic endeavors have been based on responses, which is to say they are products of my experience and inner feelings.

All my artistic endeavors have been based on responses, which is to say they are products of my experience and inner feelings. Implicit in this is the sense that any individual with an open and perceptive mind's eye can move to and through any aesthetic media without a fear of artistic self-delusion.

It seems to me that any artistic endeavor should move freely at will. This concept is not merely a fleeting notion, but reflects a continuum of self-purpose. Mediums become vehicles, and a variety of vehicles make for a variety of realms. Each conceives and brings about the existence of a not yet inhabited domain.

A bright Autumn Moon…
In the Shadow of Each Grass
An insect chirping.

—Buson

Copyright 1989 Thomas Stearns. Essay reproduced from The Venetians: Modern Glass 1919 – 1990, Muriel Karasik Gallery, 1989