the nineteenth story

Today, a Massart story:
a little context is necessary for this one. I was a small metals major at Massart, but spent at least as much time in the foundry and attached large metal studio as I did in small metals. Small metals was a very clean, quiet studio- the kind of place where you could concentrate on setting a stone just so. Large metals was loud, and chaotic, and very dirty. I looked like I belonged in the latter.

So there I am, covered head to toe in black dirt, in a tank top and stained carrharts, sitting on my bench at the end of the row in small metals. I was grinding off a sprue (that would be where you pour whatever material you're casting into whatever it is your casting). It was from a bronze thing that I'd cast in the foundry, but was relativly small, so I was using the flex shaft. Most of the casting I did was large scale, and sprue grinding would have been done downstairs, with an angle grinder, standing up. A flex shaft is used sitting down. The red hot sprue flew off when the grinding was done- right down my pants.

I reacted the way that anyone would to a cherry red bit of bronze down one's pants. I yelled like a lumberjack, lept up, put my hand down my pants, and, when that didn't work, dropped my trousers in the middle of the studio, while still cursing more or less at the top of my lungs.

I still have a scar in an unmentionable location, and I NEVER go into the studio without a belt.

the second story

Another short story: I transferred in to Massart, having already attended two (yes two) other schools. I still had to take a few freshman classes, though, including something that involved painting. One of my professors caught me hiding my enormous paintings in a stairwell, and gave me a key to an empty room to use as a studio. This was awesome. For weeks, I had that room to myself, and, being the person I am, I would frequently take off my shirt to paint, as to avoid staining it. That was great, until one day, the professor gave a key to another student, who opened the door to see me, nearly nude, painting a still life. He squeaked, turned beet red, and slammed the door. We later became great friends.