Zoë Birch became a sculptor. Metal work. Her long twisted sculptures wound upward. Spiraling intertwined cables led to nowhere or to anywhere in her sculptures. Shapes that delighted her but didn’t sell.
She finally had to seek work as a barista to support herself. Like other artists and sculptors before her, she took a day job to support her artistic habit. Others might have been daunted by the economic realities of being an artist, others might have become morose or cynical by having to engage in day-to-day commerce, having to participate in the business world, but not Zoë. She figured that she could learn barista work quickly and it would give her employment at any number of local establishments no matter what direction the economy took.
Meanwhile, her sculptures filled the garage of the little 1920’s apartment she rented on Seattle’s Capitol Hill, a small one-car Model A-sized garage. A forest of shimmery, shiny, gleaming wire cable sculptures greeted her when she swung the doors open wide on sunny afternoons. Running out of room in the garage precipitated a decision about what to do with her inventory of unsold sculptures.
One bright Sunday morning she met friends on the waterfront for brunch. They talked over salmon and crab cakes and eggs benedict. A chance remark from a friend gave her an idea. She circled the next night of a new moon on her calendar. A perfect night for her endeavor.
An item appeared in The Seattle Times on the day following the new moon about a mysterious flash mob that materialized at the Olympic Sculpture Park, each carrying a delicate wire sculpture, several dozen planted in open landscape of the museum/park, no one knowing who had made them or where they came from.
Zoë’s garage was empty.