High Cholesterol Sculpture!
by Cork Marcheschi

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June of 1970 I received my MFA degree in sculpture from the California College of Arts and Crafts. (That is a story in itself). I had applied for 110 college level teaching positions and I got one. So I took it. I was born and raised in San Francisco, by Italian immigrants. I am first generation American and I never wanted to leave the Bay Area. I didn’t have wanderlust. I was happy with art, music, food and fun right where I was. But at 25 years old, I had a wife and a 3-year-old little boy. By the end of June we were in the U-haul heading to the extremely exotic Minneapolis, Minnesota. Once I was east of Reno I was in new territory.

It took 4 days for the U-haul to make it to Minneapolis. Upon arriving I met the chairman of the department and was offered a rental home across the street from the school. I was being paid $7,500 a year (even in 1970 that was a very thin salary). I was broker than broke. “How broke?” you ask. Well I was breaking apart old student sculptures so I could salvage the nails.

Herb, my boss, calls and asks if I would like to make some decent money for 10 days work. I didn’t ask what, I just said, Yes! He said Mary would call me and explain all of it. Two days later Mary calls. She was very nice and excited to get to know the new artist from San Francisco. She told me how much she loved San Francisco and crabs and Fisherman’s Wharf and the Mark Hopkins Hotel and the crooked little street and…and…and… Jesus, just tell who I have to kill and let’s get on with it! But I was nice.

Mary had some kind of job that was connected to the Minnesota State Fair (the largest in America). She also worked for Land O’Lakes butter.

Every year Land O’Lakes pays a sculptor $800 to do sculpture work at the fair. So far so good. I could see myself making things, hanging out and talking with the locals. It sounded fine. She went on: “There is a good size room with a large glass wall that will allow the public to see you work,” and then she says something really strange: “Do you have a parka you can work in?” I said No, I never needed one in SF and it was 95° outside. “Well,” she says, “It is about 40° in the studio.”

“Oh!” I say. Then Mary offers: “We will supply all the butter.” Silence on my end…

The raw material butter is cast in 30” high by 18” blocks. Then she goes on: “There are 10 beauty princesses from 10 counties in Minnesota. Each of them will sit for you as you carve their bust in butter.” Please try to feel what it felt like in my 25-year old musician/artist/Haight Ashbury/North Beach brain!@#$%^&*()_. “S-U-R-E,” I said. She went on: “There is a little hole in the glass wall that is next to where you will be working. When someone is close to that hole, pick up a chip of the butter and pass it through the glass to them.”

Here is what is going on for me: #1, I desperately need the money–not for fun but to put food on the table and get on with my life; #2 I am not a figurative sculptor–I mean, I am REALLY NOT A FIGURATIVE ARTIST in any way shape or form.

OK, I say, I would be happy to do it. Mary was beside herself. She offered to introduce me to Bernie who won last year’s Duck Stamp competition.

We hung up and I wondered what I had just agreed to do? I had humiliated myself several times in my life but it was usually a momentary thing, this would be 10 am to 5 pm for ten days. I would be on display, just like the rabid tree frogs of Sumatra or the world’s smallest full-grown man. I would fit right in: “SEE THE ARTIST THAT CAN’T DRAW! Watch him fumble with conte crayons, smear charcoal and mix his foreground with his background while bending his triple point perspective! All of this, ladies and gentlemen, FOR YOUR PLEASURE!”

I didn’t have a car so Mary offered to pick me up on her way to the fair. She was very nice and talked non-stop which helped mask my fear. She asked about my tools. Well, what I had was a fettling knife normally used for clay, a carving tool also used for clay, a propane torch, a spoon and a butter knife. Well she just went to pieces when I mentioned the butter knife. I could tell she was pleased with her choice for the butter-queen-carving thing.

On our way in from the parking lot we passed through all of the food stands: hot dog on a stick, frozen lemonade, burgers, HOT DAGOS! I stopped. “Mary, what is a HOT DAGO?” She very casually told me that it was a sausage and pepper sandwich and ohhh were they good. I mentioned that if they took their little stand to Chicago, New York or San Francisco it would be burned to the ground in about 15 minutes. Where had I moved to? Who were these people who used racial slurs as food names and put sculptors in a fridge with a pretty girl in a parka and 400 pounds of butter…and in plain view of families!?

We got to the industrial arts building and I was shown my refrigerated studio. There were 10 huge lumps of butter just waiting for my creative hands to breathe life into them. I picture Michelangelo putting his hands on the butter and letting it talk to him. To him it would it say “David.” To me it said “Toast?”

I thanked her for the ride and stood alone in my refrigerator. I opened my little tool bag, zipped up my two hooded sweatshirts and awaited a pretty girl. Miss Mankato walked in at 10:30. She was blonde and she was really white, and a bit nervous about being in small room with a butter sculptor from San Francisco. I introduced myself and offered her the seat closest to the little hole in the window. I told her it would make people’s day if she handed them the little chips of butter. I then bent in close to her and whispered, “This may be as close to royalty as any of them ever get.” She smiled and I could tell she agreed.

I ask her the normal questions: what is she studying in school? Has she ever been to a Tijuana peep show? etc. I can feel my heart beating in my fingertips as I start to attack the butter. I am pleased that the butter has more body than I thought it would, like very fine clay with no grit. I start by reducing the rectangular mass to a form that is generally head shaped. Now the people start to show up–oh shit! They are looking at me–I am trying to look confident and casual–kinda like Bill Murray’s lounge singer.

They look at me for few seconds then look at the beautiful, young and extremely white girl with a sash that says miss Mankato (with tiara).

I am momentarily off the hook. Soon, though I must sculpt features. I hesitate. Do I use the fettling knife or the tablespoon? I go for the spoon. I start by pulling long strokes from what will be the forehead (I think) and create long wavy grooves that have an art deco stylized hair thing going on. Then I have to make a face part. I have never made a face part. I start with an ear–it’s not up front so I have a little leeway on it. I go for the fettling knife and start to carve away at an ear. Well it sticks out way too much and it looks like the princess had been boxing since she was 10. There is now a crowd of about 40 people watching me–not her. There is a minor furor going through this little crowd and I can see there is a heated discussion between two men. One is about 45 years old and the other is maybe 25. I stop and move to the hole in the glass. The older gentleman is saying something like, “It looks awful–it doesn’t look like a woman at all.” The young man says the magic word, “IT’S MODERN.” Why hadn’t I thought about that? Be true to yourself and you will set yourself free. Right then. I picked up a clipboard and whacked that ear so that it was smushed up against the side of the head. A little oooohh went up from the crowd. Then I got out the spoon and gouged myself two eye sockets, a bigger OOOHHHH. From the bottom of the pile of butter I scooped up a ball and rolled between my hands and then stuck in the gouged out eye sockets. Man! the audience was really getting worked up. There were several camps discussing the genius or the idiot, take your pick.

Slash–slash–slash–push–pat–pull out the butter knife and whamo! you got lips–pure butter lips. The crowd had gone silent as they watched. Miss Mankato kept passing butter chips out the window.

I turn my back to the crowd and when I turn back I have the propane torch. The crowd goes wild. I warm –I melt–I push–I poke–I laugh.

And finally I put down my tools and it is done. Cubist Madonna as drunken Girl Scout on acid!

The crowd had let go of their art criticism and gotten into the spirit of the moment and supported the POOR young man who was trying to make a living.

Miss Mankato had no idea what had happened and avoided looking at her likeness in butter.

I was exhausted – I was hungry and I knew what I was going to be doing for the next 10 days. I went and got myself a HOT DAGO and got ready for Miss Detroit Lakes.

— Cork Marcheschi | February 2, 2007

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