Nine years ago, he assembled his first clothespin sculpture as a
joke for a fetish party. He chose the medium "because it was cheap."
Today, he says, "It's all I do. It's taken over my life, in a good
way."
representational, but gradually take on intuitive forms that the artist
says are a surprise even to himself. That said, several of the pieces on
the sand bore resemblances to lanky primates, while one appeared quite
canine. Another was essentially a very stiff beach blanket, which Stecca
and his friend, South African photographer Simon Hare, tried to outfit
with a real live baby for some photographs. The red-faced and wailing
infant failed to cooperate, however.
As
Stecca and Hare rearranged sculptures to catch the best of the fading
afternoon light, beach-goers interrupted their splashing and lazing to
interject sun-dazed words of praise for the unusual objects.
these yours? They're beautiful, good work," said a middle-aged brunette
in a pink sarong before dragging her beach gear toward the boardwalk.
Stecca's interns lounged around the sculptures as if they, too, were
part of the installations. They are participants in a mentorship program
for which they spend hours a week working with artists, eventually
"marrying" one and creating a major piece inspired by their time with
their mentor, said Anna Barten, director of education at the Bakehouse,
who was also at the beach on Wednesday.
beach scene was, of course, a thinly veiled publicity stunt, which
Stecca had little trouble admitting. Like most artists, Stecca likes
attention, even if it comes in a questionable package.
Stecca said. As I was about to offer my outrage, he exclaimed, "It was
great! It was no big deal to fix, but it got tons of attention!"
