Ideas were water on a winter day in Portland when I started this thing. We needed more to get through the weekend.

Ideas weren't going to cut it though. What we needed was Mr.Scaffold. Thanks go to the friends that have helped since the beginning of this project. But most of all, they go to Mr.Scaffold. We couldn't have done it without you, Mr.Scaffold.

With trembling lips and wimpering arms, we cajoled sheet rock into place. You learn quickly with the better part of a 12' x 4' piece of 5/8" sheet rock held aloft over your head. After the first day of screwing, Friday, with help from Martin, Michael, and myself, the garage area was done and the main studio area awaited.
Burke kept asking on Friday, "So what do you want to do tomorrow?" He was as worried about that ceiling as I was. As you might remember, Martin and I had discovered that for whatever reason some of the rafters weren't quite where they should have been when we'd sheathed the roof. It meant that we'd had to trim the plywood in multiple directions to get it to fit. It might mean that putting up drywall would be enough to drive the most consummate professional insane.
Saturday morning, up and fresh we tackled it. Lift, twist, lift, drill. And a sheet was up. What!?!? The firing squad missed. Next sheet. Lift, twist, lift, drill. What?!?!? They missed again. And so it went. Shortly after lunch, we had the entire ceiling up. We'd feared it would take us the day if not more to wrestle the sheets up there.
The building was becoming that much more real again. Each state, a metamorphosis. For months I'd stared at bare lumber, for days insulation. The function of the walls more apparent, but somehow less tangible than now.
I was dancin' with glee. That'd be the twist. What can I say? Rachmaninoff does that to me.
Burke was less than amused. This is his "Just get it f'n done" face.
The skylights make the space. Opening them opened me.
Is it dreaming if it's real?
It was a long day to cap a few long days, but a great day. The rock, minus a couple bits, was up.









