Fused Glass Tiles on Aluminum

Unleashing the Unconscious: Fused Glass Tiles on Aluminum Panels

In making art, I was not merely seeking the real nor the unreal, but rather the unconscious, the mysterious layers of self, and the profound shift that comes with being awake.

During my business career, I traveled extensively, visiting electronics circuit card manufacturers around the globe and collaborating with engineers on design challenges and component selection. Circuit cards themselves are works of art—their intricate arrangements of components are a marvel of precision and creativity. The sophisticated assembly lines that produce everything from smartphones to guided missile rockets never ceased to amaze me. This experience naturally shaped my inclination toward incorporating technology into my creative process. It ultimately inspired me to explore innovative materials, beginning with plexiglass sheets and evolving to printed aluminum as complementary foundations for fused glass—culminating in the creation of visually harmonious works of art.

I found additional inspiration in the Light and Space art movement, which originated in Southern California during the 1960s. This movement embraced cutting-edge post-WWII materials like fiberglass and resins and was characterized by abstraction, minimalism, and a polished, glossy aesthetic. Eager to experiment, I began exploring different media, enrolling in art classes at Santa Monica College and attending various workshops. 

My introduction to plexiglass came during a house renovation project when I sought a bold, visually impactful focal point for a room. Plexiglass offered the perfect solution: a broad, uninterrupted, colorful surface to which I mounted several painted canvases. A glass-like material made from Polymethyl Methacrylate, plexiglass has existed since the 1930s. It is more robust than glass or plastic, available in various colors and thicknesses, and widely used in commercial advertising, window coverings, and skylights. 

Later, while attending a fused glass workshop, I encountered glass tiles with a mesmerizing glossy finish. It occurred to me that these tiles could be mounted on plexiglass sheets, combining two materials that shared a shiny, sensual allure. At that moment, I was merely experimenting with materials, unaware of how profoundly this exploration would resonate with my personal story.

Forging Light from Shadows

I transformed my garage into a studio, complete with a large kiln. I embarked on a journey to master the art of fusing glass and integrating it with plexiglass into cohesive, meaningful pieces. This process involved delving into the nuances of composition, proportions, color theory, and the technical challenges of combining the materials. With its forgiving nature, fused glass allowed for slight cut imperfections, but plexiglass demanded absolute precision. I relied on Google SketchUp to create detailed design drawings, which were then transferred to a CNC Laser Cutting Machine. CNC, short for Computer Numerical Control, uses data from the design software to guide the laser with pinpoint accuracy, ensuring perfect cuts and minimal deformation. I was fortunate to collaborate with the skilled Laseronics Advance Laser Dies team, who generously brought my intricate ideas to life. I then refined techniques to assemble the glass and plexiglass into unified panels, incorporating custom mounting brackets for support and display. These techniques became foundational as I later transitioned to creating fused glass tiles on aluminum, exploring new possibilities in both color and composition.

The pivotal moment for my creative vision came during an art class. I presented a piece featuring four painted canvases, divided by a horizontal line at the center, all mounted on a plexiglass sheet. My teacher, Linda Lopez—a mentor I deeply admire—posed a simple yet transformative question: “It’s interesting, but what is your intention?” My internal response took me to the issues that loomed over me my entire life – the effects of being a second-generation Holocaust survivor.

Growing up, I always wanted to know more about my father’s experiences and memories of the horror he went through during WWII, but he could never “touch the fire.” He described events with broad brush strokes, never with emotional tones and colors, just the facts and dates. From a young age, I intuitively understood that he could not share the pain, the agony, and the shame. Yet they were unmistakably etched into his being, as visible as the tattooed numbers on his arm. I saw these unspoken experiences as a “black hole”—a vortex from which no light could escape. Left without his narrative, I turned inward, filling the void with my imagination, vividly visualizing the unspeakable truths he carried but could never share. 

Touching the Fire, Taming Demons

My father survived four different concentration camps. When the Nazis transferred the Jews to the concentration camps, they were loaded into cattle trains, standing shoulder to shoulder with no food or water. I often imagined myself in those horrific trains. What would I do? What would I feel? The only solace I could envision was peering out of a slit in the wooden panels and composing a symphony of gorgeous colors as the green forests, blue lakes, and snowy white mountains rushed past me.

I decided to focus and describe one thing only – the horizon line, ever-changing yet endless. I started what became a Sisyphean journey that spanned a few years. I immersed myself in creating hundreds of fused glass tiles, each unique in color and shape but united by a single, constant theme: the line. This process symbolized my journey away from Auschwitz, in contrast to my father’s journey toward it. It was my journey of making peace with my demons, striving to integrate feelings of shame and anger instead of battling them endlessly—a battle that always seemed unsuccessful. 

The landscapes I attempted to call to mind were taken from my inner world yet reflected the physical world. Replicating the landscape along the train route is not really what interests me. I wanted to create a deliberate and consistent distortion—bending and shaping the imagery to reflect my will. For me, this represented the triumph of mind over matter. 

Throughout art history, lines have defined and given meaning to form. There are infinite ways to describe a line connecting two points. I needed to find my way—one that captured the horizon as it exists in nature while also introducing organic, amorphous shapes into my geometrically bold and mathematically precise designs. To achieve this, I perfected a method of twisting glass in its molten state. 

This technique was exhilarating. After heating the colored glass pieces on a kiln shelf to 1700°F, they became uniform orange-red and soft enough to manipulate. At this critical moment, I would open the kiln door and twist the molten glass with a BBQ spatula. The process required speed and precision, as I had only 10 to 20 seconds before the glass began to harden. Once the glass cooled, I would restart the cycle, twisting each piece into one-of-a-kind patterns where colors blended and streaked in unpredictable ways. 

Hours later, when the kiln cooled to room temperature, I would finally see the results—always a mystery, always a surprise. I came to think of this process as an exercise in “Let go and let God.” It was a gift for my perfectionist tendencies, a necessary surrender that forced me to embrace imperfection and relinquish control. 

Through this process, I found a way to embody my journey in art—a testament to resilience, transformation, and the power of creation to heal.

The Void Speaks: Rothko, Wiesel, and the Weight of Memory

The writer and Nobel laureate Eli Wiesel said, “The Holocaust cannot be described, it cannot be communicated, it is unexplainable. To me, it is a mystical event. I have the feeling almost of sin when I speak about it.” Figuring out how to present my work, Wiesel’s words loomed over me like a shadow. How could I describe the indescribable and capture the enormity of such devastation? I needed to devise a way to describe the indescribable and capture the devastation’s enormity. At the same time, to make it about my journey as opposed to the journey of the six million lives lost in the Holocaust. Fortunately, the many exhibitions I had seen over the years played a significant role in shaping my vision.

My perspective of art was forever changed in 1982 when I saw Mark Rothko’s Seagram Murals at London’s Tate Gallery for the first time. The paintings were mounted high on warm gray walls, compelling my gaze upward as if inviting a dialogue with something greater than myself. I sat at the center of the gallery, enveloped by the void created by Rothko’s brilliant reds, deep browns, and rich blacks. The amorphous shapes, layered one atop another with bold yet feathery brushstrokes, appeared to glow from within. They were arranged in what felt like a deliberate, almost mathematical order.

The installation evoked a meditative space, a realm of silent conversation where my deepest emotions—my struggles, my longing—could be projected into the paintings. In that immense void, I felt as though I were in the presence of the divine, where higher spirits resided.

Mark Rothko, a Jewish-Russian immigrant to the United States, emerged as one of the leading figures of Abstract Expressionism in the post-WWII era. The movement’s large-scale, non-representational works, characterized by emotional depth and gestural intensity, seemed to be a direct response to the horrors of the Nazi concentration camps and the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Rothko and his contemporaries rejected realism, as though to ask, “How can one paint flowers or reclining nudes in the aftermath of such atrocities?” Their work embodied a visceral need to articulate the inarticulable, offering instead an emotional resonance that transcended traditional representation.

Fused Glass Tiles on Aluminum: A Dance of Precision and Flow

Building on my initial work with plexiglass as a background for fused glass tiles, I began searching for a material that could provide greater versatility in color and allow for organic, fluid shapes. This quest led me to printed aluminum—lightweight yet durable sheets adorned with custom designs I created in Adobe Illustrator. Unlike the rigid geometry of plexiglass, printed aluminum offered a canvas for wavy, flowing imagery that harmonized beautifully with the molten, dynamic twists of the fused glass. Together, the printed aluminum and fused glass tiles form a seamless interplay of color, texture, and motion.

This process, which I call “Fused Glass Tiles on Aluminum,” represents a blend of precision and spontaneity. The meticulous preparation of the aluminum’s printed patterns complements the unpredictability of manipulating glass at 1700°F. The aluminum serves as both a structural and visual foundation, its designs amplifying the vibrant, tactile qualities of the fused glass tiles. This fusion of materials has expanded my creative possibilities and deepened my exploration of organic forms, resulting in compositions that celebrate movement, transformation, and harmony.

Beyond the Darkness

The Holocaust was an industrial-scale killing; a genocide carried out with chilling, psychopathic efficiency. The trauma it inflicted, particularly on survivors and their descendants, will linger through generations, leaving its enduring mark on the collective human experience. As an artist and a descendant of survivors, I find myself challenged by questions that are central to my work, my voice, and my journey:

  • How do I pay homage to the death, the survivors, and to my journey of carrying the shadows of the horror?
  • How to present an inspiring work of art where the story does not end with horror? Instead, the art offers a vehicle of transformation into a narrative of resilience, humanity, hope, innovation, and beauty?

To explore these questions, I envisioned a multi-media installation that would serve as a space for reflection and healing. Designed for a large room with high ceilings, the installation comprises two primary works: matching panels stretching along each wall and video installations in each corner. Together, these elements envelop the viewer in an immersive visual experience that balances beauty with profound introspection.

Horizons of Resilience

The fused glass tiles on aluminum or plexiglass serve as the central medium, with their vibrant colors and dynamic shapes creating a sense of continuity and rhythm. As viewers walk through the installation, they are invited to observe the subtle shifts in color while tracing the constant rhythm of the line—a symbolic journey through time and emotion. This exploration of the line, represented in the fused glass tiles and the interplay of colors across the plexiglass or printed aluminum panels, evokes a sense of traveling through a particular geography. The horizontal rectangles of glass tiles conjure the image of a landscape glimpsed from the window of a fast-moving train, grounding the work in the duality of motion and stillness.

At each corner, the repeating video is a 4-hour-long collage of clips. Most of the video is from a 2009 film of a train journey made in Norway from Bergen to Oslo. The geography is monotonous, with endless white snowfields and blue, grayish sky. The image is meditative, conveying a calm serenity, which breaks every time the train enters a tunnel. The darkness that engulfs the screen is a portal to images that conjure memories of a different train ride: cattle trains and train station signposts from the movie Shoah by Claude Lanzmann, 1985. The audio track accentuates the contrast between the tunnel of dark memories and the brightness of life through its meditative soundscape and agonizing cries.

Visitors are encouraged to bring their stories into the installation to reflect on their unique pain, struggles, and recovery journeys. I hope the installation offers a mirror for personal introspection and a portal to healing—a space where resilience takes root and humanity reclaims its light.

In 2013, I was honored to present my work at the Harriet and Kenneth Kupferberg Holocaust Museum in Queens, NY. I named the installation “The Train from Auschwitz; A Journey from Shame to Self-Realization.” 

Finding the Oneness

At times, I am an engineer who considers options and executes technical solutions, combining fused glass tiles on aluminum or plexiglass sheets. Then there are moments when I am the craftsman repeating certain activities to perfection like an instrument. I am at peak awareness when I cut a slab of fused glass into perfect rectangles. During these times, my muscle memory takes over, making sure that none of my fingers will get in the way of the blade. My eyes are focused on the line between the blade and the glass while my ears are tuning into an audiobook, all with the highest concentration possible. This is what I enjoy the most; my mind, hands, and spirit are at a place of oneness, a place of complete flow where time and space lose all meaning.

The beauty I seek to create is not just a visual endeavor but a means to connect with the ineffable, that which can not be described with words. It is my tool to reckon with the weight of ancestral shame—a burden not solely mine but one that resonates universally. The journey into self-realization and discovering the authentic self involves extensive preparation of mind and emotions to recognize, accept, and embrace this everlasting process. The Tao – “The Way” means knowing one’s place in the cosmos and that one’s place is very small.