Unless indicated otherwise, the details of this tale are taken fromPhilip
Schuyler’s wonderful two-part story in the New Yorker (1991).

James Acord worked out of a studio in Seattle’s
Fremont district. But Fremont declared itself a “nuclear free zone,” and
Acord had to go.

It is not as if Acord had placed Seattle in immanent danger of an atomic
catastrophe. Quite the opposite - one of his projects had every possibility of
eliminating the threat of nuclear war. Acord proposed replacing the warheads in
ballistic missiles with granite sculptures called “artheads.” He shrewdly
calculated that the anticipated “cost over-runs and the kickbacks”
associated with arthead production would satisfy the Pentagon by costing as much
as the nuclear warheads they replaced. The potential profits for those involved
in such a military-artistic complex were enormous, and Acord predicted that“This is the one that will put me over the top.” Alas, not even the
art world has proven immune to the cutbacks that followed the end of the cold
war.

Given his peaceful intentions, what could explain Acord’s eviction from
his Fremont studio? The answer might lie with an aspect of Acord’s art that
his fellow artists (and landlord) may have considered inherently evil:radioactivity. Ever since childhood, when he shut himselfup in a dark closet to watch the ethereal flashes of alpha particles
striking the screen of a spinthariscope, Acord has been fascinated by
radioactivity.

First and foremost however, Acord is a sculptor, and granite is his
material of choice. Although difficult to work, it has one unrivalled
characteristic - durability. And granite has something else that Acord highly
prizes -uranium!From the moment he became aware that granite contained trace quantities
of uranium, Acord sought a way to create an interplay between the two materials
in a single work of art.

The means by which he would do so came to him during a visit to the
Cloisters, a branch of the Metropolitan Museum of Art constructed from parts of
medieval churches. The reliquaries he saw there, designed to hold sacred
artifacts, provided the answer. Acord resolved to construct a nuclear reliquary
in which he would sealuranium! The
idea was a natural for the one-time altar boy who had held ambitions to become a
priest- ambitions prematurely
thwarted when he was caught performing unauthorized rites with holy water and
wine.

Acord began the painstaking work of carving his reliquary in 1980, but it
wasn’t until 1986 that a friendly tip led him to a source of uranium: Fiesta
Red, the antique orange dinnerware with the uranium-containing glaze. In no time
at all, Acord had accumulated substantial quantities of Fiesta dinnerware and
even devised a technique for extracting and concentrating the glaze. Desirous
that the uranium content of his precious concentrate be analyzed, Acord went to
the State of Washington’s Radiation Control Program. But instead of analyzing
his uranium, they confiscated it!Adding
insult to injury, they informed Acord that any future attempts to separate the
glaze would be construed as processing and require a license! The application
alone would cost $27,000 and if the license were granted, the annual fees would
exceed a quarter of a million dollars.

The alternative wasn’t much better. Unless he were licensed, he could
possessno more than 15 pounds of
Fiestaware at any one time. Furthermore, chemical separations would be forbidden
and a license would have to be obtained by anyone purchasing Acord’s work.
Sales prospects looked grim!

Even so, Acord continued work on the reliquary, and by 1988 it was almost
complete. Five foot high, a stepped base supports a gradually tapered column.
From the top of the column, like a fossil out of bedrock, emerges the skull of a
horse. Philip Schuyler, author of the quintessential New Yorker articles on
Acord, speculated that it might be a knight from a gargantuan chess game. But
Acord said no - he just liked the way it looked. All it lacked was uranium.

In late 1988, Acord got his big break. The NRC ruled that the 15 pound
limit applied to source material, not the dinnerware itself. Free to complete
his sculpture as long as it contained no more than 20% glaze, Acord encapsulated
his Fiestaware in a stainless steel vessel and sealed the container in the base
of the sculpture. The reliquary was complete. He called it “Monstrance for a
Gray Horse.”

Prompted to find other uses for his remaining stockpile of Fiestaware,
Acord created the “Atomic Fiesta Plasma Reactor.”The reactor consists of stacked Fiesta Red dinnerware submerged in a 30
gallon fish tank and it takes advantage of the differing vapor pressures of
ordinary and heavy water. By continuously bubbling air through the tank, the
light water is preferentially evaporated while the naturally-occurring heavy
water is concentrated. Acord calculates that in several thousand years the heavy
water content will be sufficient for the reactor to achieve criticality.The precise moment will be identified by the sudden appearance of
floating fish - fried, ready to eat.

The Fiesta Plasma Reactor (now decommissioned) made its last appearance
in 1988 at a special showing of Acord’s art. The exhibit marked his decision
to leave Seattle for the greener pastures, figuratively speaking, of Richland
Washington, site of the Department of Energy’s Hanford reservation.

As soon as he had settled into his new home, Acord undertook a pilgrimage
to Hanford’s reactors.What he saw
there was a revelation. It convinced him that the engineers who had constructed
these modern wonders were artisans of the highest order. Hoping to learn what he
could of their skills, Acord actively sought out members of the nuclear
community.When he heard that a
number of Hanford workers had drinking problems, Acord joined the local branch
of Alcoholics Anonymous. Unfortunately, everyone with a Q clearance was suddenly
removed from his group and Acord’s thirst for knowledge went unquenched.

It took time and effort, but the nuclear community eventually accepted
Acord as a member of their club, and he began to get invitations to speak at
their professional meetings.One
invitation proved critical. The occasion was a symposium sponsored by
Hanford’s Fast Flux Test Facility, and Acord had the audience in the palm of
his hand. Following his talk, an enthralled Siemens delegation from Germany
approached him with an offer he couldn’t refuse: eight-two kilograms of
depleted uranium in the form of 12 breeder blanket fuel assemblies. Acord fondly
recalls, “beautifully engineered 316 low-swell, stainless steel with zirconium
tubing. Its not every day that you’re offered stuff like that” (Hall 1995).And best of all, Siemens agreed to ship and store the assemblies at their
Richland facility.

With the assistance of his good friend Nancy Kirner and a few courses in
radiation protection,Acord obtained
his license and the uranium! Unfortunately, the acquisition of the uranium has
proven a mixed blessing.

While his entry into the nuclear field has provided him with unlimited
speaking engagements, ­it has left his finances depleted and his marriage
broken. It has also consumed a great deal of time: Acord has surveys to perform,
reports to fill out, and as one of Hanford’s five licensees, he is required to
attend meetings of the radiation protection and emergency evacuation committees.

Furthermore, with nobody willing to commission a sculpture that would
incorporate the fuel assemblies, Acord is between a rock and a hard place: “I
don’t know whether to pull the plug on this thing now, or let the regulators
do it when they next inspect the company and find me in violation” (Hall
1995).

He does have one potential
commission on the horizon: courtesy of the Hanford B-Reactor Museum Association,
Acord has obtained three huge granite reference slabs. The hope is that he will
create a relief sculpture on the unfinished sides of the slabs and that one, a
42 ton monster, will grace the Museum grounds. As yet however, the funding
hasn’t materialized.

And James Acord? While lesser mortals might have returned to Seattle and
forsworn all things nuclear, Acord is determined to maintain his residence in
the Atomic Age. Nothing short of an eviction notice will make him leave.