BORNE ON THE WIND
Capturing the character and movement of their subjects in copper, Karen and Gordon Green create stunning weathervanes
Striking sculptures in gleaming copper spun by the wind
AHAZE OF SUNLIGHT breaks through the small window of Karen Green’s workshop, spilling over the carefully shaped pieces of copper before her. The quiet of the day is interrupted by a hiss of flame as she works to create the gentle sweep of a swallow’s wing; the metal burning red, then cooling to shades of purple and gold.
Karen works on a scarred wooden block, beneath the low beams and fading whitewashed brick of a converted granary. Works in progress are scattered all around: a majestic hawk hovers, talons outstretched, in the corner; a leaping hare traverses a bench beside necks and heads of partly formed geese. Hammers and chisels lie among sketchbooks and drawings; photographs cover the backs of doors; jars filled with rivets, bolts, magnets and dies line old bookshelves.
Karen has been working copper, brass and bronze from this corner of a Herefordshire farm for more than a decade. In the peace of the countryside, surrounded by the rolling fields of the Guy’s Estate, she and her husband, Gordon, craft intricately wrought weathervanes, drawing on a long tradition in both Britain and her native America.
“Weathervanes are considered a real part of US folk culture, and people are very aware of them as an art form,” she explains. “When I left art school, I worked as an apprentice to a weathervane maker in Martha’s Vineyard, off the coast of Massachusetts, where there is a lot of competition between makers. When I married an Englishman and came here, I was amazed by how ancient the buildings were, and all their vanes. I was looking up all the time, practically walking into traffic. But here, I think they are seen as just an everyday part of the landscape.”
Inspired by nature
The direction of the wind is a good predictor of the weather. In the past, farmers, fishermen and washerwomen alike would all keep a watchful eye on the local weathervane. Many public buildings, in particular churches, would have one, and they were a popular decoration on the homes of the wealthy, even after newspapers started to publish forecasts in the 1860s. By this time, the flat, steel ‘silhouette’ shapes often seen today were being produced, but it is the spirit of the older vanes that Karen and Gordon seek to capture.
“The early weathervanes were vital and full of movement,” says Karen. “The best were handcrafted, three-dimensional sculptures in copper. Originally, most
“The moon shines bright: in such a night as this, When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, And they did make no noise”
William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice
would have been gilded as well, so they could be seen glittering for miles around. Obviously, their function was to tell the weather, but they were often a symbol of power and status, and sometimes carried much darker meanings. Wyverns and dragons seen on churches, for example, were linked with Satan and were warnings against sin.”
Today, people want weathervanes to add a flourish to their homes, to decorate an outbuilding or even to display in the garden. They are a popular way of marking an anniversary or other special occasion. Animals are particularly sought after, and Karen has a special affinity for birds. “I spent many childhood summers on Martha’s Vineyard with my aunt, an amateur ornithologist, who took part in projects studying migration. I used to creep round the island, helping her ring the terns which swooped all around, and I spent hours watching them.
“Today, I watch the wildlife from my studio. We’re near the River Wye, and I watch the herons, mallards and egrets, and the kites and buzzards flying across. I often use them as models for the vanes. If a kite flies over when I’m making a weathervane of a kite, it feels like a blessing.”
Most weathervanes take four to six weeks to produce, depending on the size and complexity of the piece. An 8ft (2.5m) tall ‘Lady Liberty’ vane for the American Museum in Bath was one of the largest the couple have ever made and took more than four months to complete. Although customers can choose from a portfolio of designs, each vane is completely handcrafted without a mould, so that no two pieces are ever the same.
For an original commission, Karen thinks carefully how to present the subject, to give fluidity and life to the finished piece, and how best to capture the mythology around a totemic animal. She will spend hours looking through reference material for inspiration. For a recent vane of a swan, for example, she re-read medieval tales of the swan maiden, looked at modern tattoos of swans and also became fascinated with the image of the chained swan used as a
symbol of Buckinghamshire. This is one of her favourite parts of the process: “I like going through the books for the first design; working out how to build character into the vane, to give it a story. I’ll look at the underside of a dog’s feet or study how the knees of a horse look straight on.”
Movement and balance
In addition to the artistry, there are practical considerations. Each vane is constructed around a central brass rod that slides into an attachment on the roof and gives stability and support to the piece, bearing its entire weight. Karen must ensure the placement of the rod makes sense within the overall design and does not distract the eye. There must also be an asymmetry to the vane, with one part significantly larger than the other. The part with the larger surface area, the body of a fox, perhaps, catches the wind and swings the smaller part, its pointed nose, into the wind. At the same time, the weight must be distributed evenly around the shaft, so that the vane can move smoothly. The ornate piercing seen on some vanes is not only decorative, but may also help to transfer the weight correctly. Weathervanes always point in the direction from which the wind is blowing, so a vane pointing south means the wind is coming from the south, bringing with it warmer, drier weather.
Once plans have been finalised, work begins to break the design down into its components. Using her master sketch, Karen first traces each section onto brown paper to produce a pattern: the head, neck, beak of a blackbird, all separated out. Depending on the intricacy of the design, there can be 20-120 individual pieces. “It’s like a dress pattern,” she says. “You make up each of the parts in pairs that are put back together again. Like making a dress, you have to think about where the seams will be, so they’re somewhere sensible; up the side of an animal and not across its face.”
Heart of fire
Gordon now takes the reins, using the paper pattern to cut out sections of gleaming sheet copper. Usually, strong scissors are enough for the task. The pieces are then annealed: heated using a blowtorch, then allowed to cool slowly, so the copper becomes softer and more malleable. There is now just a small window of time before it hardens again. Karen moves deftly to round the flat cut-outs into three-dimensional shapes, using hammers and chisels to free-form nuances of depth and tone: the plump body of a pheasant or muscular legs of a dancer emerging from the responsive metal.
After shaping, Gordon uses a dead blow hammer and blunt chisels to add detail to the piece, referring back to the paper patterns to delicately raise the scales of a mermaid or
the feathers of a wing. Small ball-peen hammers are used to add texture, beating the metal from the reverse side in a technique known as repoussé. “A lot of coppersmithing crosses blacksmiths’ techniques with jewellers’ techniques, such as repoussé: stamping and embossing to add the interest,” says Karen. “People ask ‘why bother’, because you can’t see the detail from the ground, but actually you can.
“You must be careful not to actually cut into the copper, as it is easily split. We often find old worn tools at car boot sales and grind them down so they’re suitable for us to use.”
Alive with detail, the different sections finally go to a welding block to be united into the complete vane. This is the most technically skilled part of the process, and another Karen particularly enjoys, brushing the pieces with flame: in effect, sculpting with almost liquid metal. “The copper takes the heat and runs with it,” she says. “The smaller the piece, the harder it is to contain the heat. It feels exciting: sometimes you’re taking risks. It is like you’re creating your own little drama. I move around the piece constantly.”
The couple use copper brazing rods, with two per cent silver, which, unlike lead solder, actually fuse the pieces together, rather than ‘gluing’ them. This strengthens the seams as well as giving continuity of colour. If required, a soft brush is used to gild the vane in English leaf gold or silver-coloured palladium; a process which takes approximately four days. Although, historically, the whole piece would have been gilded, today, specific sections are often highlighted to make them shimmer and provide contrast with the rich copper lustre.
Final flourish
Waxing and buffing freshen the piece as well as affording some protection from the elements. Each is wind-tested before it is sent out, to ensure it performs well. “When they move, it is mesmerising,” says Karen. “They turn gently and slowly, and pick up and adjust as the wind changes. They are graceful and calm. And being copper, they will, of course, change over time, developing a rich patina and eventually that beautiful touch of verdigris. We hope generations to come will remember to look up, and enjoy them.”