From Breaking Glass to Making Glass
Now at the controls of stained glass work, a retired Air Force pilot who once broke glass today uses it to inspire
The military fighter aviation profession is competitive and swashbuckling, rewarding those blessed with an uncanny awareness of their surroundings and punishing those who don’t always see the “big picture” in air combat. I lived in this intense world for twenty-six years as an F-16 fighter pilot. As the oldest of five children, whose father made it clear college was my financial responsibility, I somehow stumbled into a “free education” at the Air Force Academy.
After graduating with a degree in civil engineering, I decided to pursue Air Force wings, even though I had a weak stomach. However, I overcame airsickness and was awarded the only F-16 assignment in my class. After being blessed with success in the fighter pilot world, my career memories have solidified around a few quiet moments in the “high untrespassed sanctity of space” that poet John Gillespie Magee Jr. refers to in High Flight, and the many challenging experiences I had during peace and conflict in the air and on the ground.
The smell of jet fuel, the camaraderie of reliving a sortie in the “bread van” ride back to the squadron, the butterflies in your stomach as you tense your body into an anti-G-straining maneuver, the power of the afterburner light—these are only experienced in the world of military fighter aviation. The common fear among fighter pilots is that when your career is over, you’ll forever long for those intense experiences. I was no different.
During my fighter career, I was a weapons officer, the squadron’s tactical expert. This position involved years of developing training scenarios in peacetime that replicated the dynamic and brutal nature of air combat. The Vietnam-era veterans who trained me stressed the need for detailed mission planning. I was taught that the plan, your knowledge of the enemy, and a detailed study of the environment all contributed to establishing a solid foundation to survive a first encounter and subsequently deliver a lethal response. These planning skills and tedious approaches to a dynamic engagement would find their way into my method of envisioning and crafting art glass panels.
The craft of stained glass art is largely about the ever-changing interplay of light, glass, and glass texture. “Seeing” what the finished work will look like when the light of day fluctuates is what makes this ancient craft so challenging.
I had learned the basics of stained glass art from an art teacher in a small Oregon high school. She enlisted my help when she traveled to local art shows, where I learned how to plan and execute the many types of glass projects we sold at weekend art festivals. Decades later, as my days in the fighter cockpit ended, I finished a half-dozen projects for friends and family.
After completing these projects, I recognized some areas for improvement, but overall the results were pleasing, and I had rekindled some “glass confidence.” Months later, our parish priest announced his interest in pursuing traditional stained glass artwork for a new church addition. He had a clear vision of what he wanted, and I expressed my reborn “glass confidence” by volunteering to design and build a window that matched the themes he envisioned.
Fr. Paul Coury, CSsR, instilled confidence in me. We traded design ideas, balancing his artistic inspirations with my knowledge of glass panel design. We settled on a clean and beautiful cross design set against a desert sunrise. I was confident I could execute this project. However, I felt we could enhance the spiritual space even more. I found a background design I believed would improve the project but would be difficult to accomplish.
The military fighter aviation profession is competitive and swashbuckling, rewarding those blessed with an uncanny awareness of their surroundings and punishing those who don’t always see the “big picture” in air combat. I lived in this intense world for twenty-six years as an F-16 fighter pilot. As the oldest of five children, whose father made it clear college was my financial responsibility, I somehow stumbled into a “free education” at the Air Force Academy.
After graduating with a degree in civil engineering, I decided to pursue Air Force wings, even though I had a weak stomach. However, I overcame airsickness and was awarded the only F-16 assignment in my class. After being blessed with success in the fighter pilot world, my career memories have solidified around a few quiet moments in the “high untrespassed sanctity of space” that poet John Gillespie Magee Jr. refers to in High Flight, and the many challenging experiences I had during peace and conflict in the air and on the ground.
The smell of jet fuel, the camaraderie of reliving a sortie in the “bread van” ride back to the squadron, the butterflies in your stomach as you tense your body into an anti-G-straining maneuver, the power of the afterburner light—these are only experienced in the world of military fighter aviation. The common fear among fighter pilots is that when your career is over, you’ll forever long for those intense experiences. I was no different.
During my fighter career, I was a weapons officer, the squadron’s tactical expert. This position involved years of developing training scenarios in peacetime that replicated the dynamic and brutal nature of air combat. The Vietnam-era veterans who trained me stressed the need for detailed mission planning. I was taught that the plan, your knowledge of the enemy, and a detailed study of the environment all contributed to establishing a solid foundation to survive a first encounter and subsequently deliver a lethal response. These planning skills and tedious approaches to a dynamic engagement would find their way into my method of envisioning and crafting art glass panels.
The craft of stained glass art is largely about the ever-changing interplay of light, glass, and glass texture. “Seeing” what the finished work will look like when the light of day fluctuates is what makes this ancient craft so challenging.
I had learned the basics of stained glass art from an art teacher in a small Oregon high school. She enlisted my help when she traveled to local art shows, where I learned how to plan and execute the many types of glass projects we sold at weekend art festivals. Decades later, as my days in the fighter cockpit ended, I finished a half-dozen projects for friends and family.
After completing these projects, I recognized some areas for improvement, but overall the results were pleasing, and I had rekindled some “glass confidence.” Months later, our parish priest announced his interest in pursuing traditional stained glass artwork for a new church addition. He had a clear vision of what he wanted, and I expressed my reborn “glass confidence” by volunteering to design and build a window that matched the themes he envisioned.
Fr. Paul Coury, CSsR, instilled confidence in me. We traded design ideas, balancing his artistic inspirations with my knowledge of glass panel design. We settled on a clean and beautiful cross design set against a desert sunrise. I was confident I could execute this project. However, I felt we could enhance the spiritual space even more. I found a background design I believed would improve the project but would be difficult to accomplish.
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About the author: John Mooney Jr., a stained glass artist, retired as a colonel in the US Air Force in 2008, completing a twenty-seven-year career. His final assignment was as the commander of a combined Air National Guard, Air Force Reserve, and active-duty Air Force flight test operation in Tucson, Arizona, from 2003 until 2008. He logged 4,000 flight hours in the F-16 during his twenty-six years in the “Viper” (as he and his fellow fliers refer to the F-16).
