Sometimes the smallest, simplest things open the largest doors. Long before screens, batteries, or software updates, a few sheets of balsa wood and a printed cardboard box were enough to launch a lifetime fascination. Balsa wood gliders were cheap, light, and honest. They asked very little of you: a careful hand, a sharp blade, a dab of glue, and patience. In return, they offered flight.
In the 1970s, these gliders were everywhere. Hanging on hooks in toy shops, stacked flat on shelves, their packaging promised blue skies and impossible distances. For just a few cents, you could carry home the idea of becoming airborne. Assembly took minutes for the simplest models, but the experience lingered far longer. A short walk to a park, a backyard slope, or the nearest rise in the land was all you needed. One good throw and the world briefly tilted upward.
Jetco’s range of gliders elevated these toys into something more ambitious. From the modest Thermic 18 to the imposing Thermic 72, with its dramatic wingspan, these were not casual playthings. They demanded care, precision, and respect for materials. Building one was a quiet exercise in focus: sanding an edge just enough, aligning a wing by eye, trusting that balance mattered. Success was never guaranteed, which made the first clean glide feel earned.
The box art mattered too. Bold graphics, hand-lettered titles, and skies rendered in optimistic shades of blue transformed thin cardboard into a promise. These packages were lessons in design as much as they were containers. They spoke of an era when illustration carried weight, when imagination did the heavy lifting long before the model ever left your hand. Even the instructions felt thoughtful, guiding rather than dictating, leaving room for interpretation and personal adjustment.
Balsa wood itself was forgiving. It bent, snapped, and bruised, but it could often be repaired. A crash into a tree or an awkward landing was rarely the end. A touch of glue, a careful finger, and the glider was ready again. There was something quietly reassuring in that resilience, a lesson about persistence disguised as play.
In “Into the Blue”, the glider lifts away from solid ground and into open space. Below, a modernist house glows softly, anchored to the earth, while clouds gather and drift. The sea stretches outward, calm and endless. The Thermic B “20” is small against this vastness, yet perfectly at home within it. The moment captured is not about speed or distance, but possibility.
Balsa wood gliders endure because they are uncomplicated. They do not pretend to be more than they are. Yet for generations of children, they offered a glimpse of something larger: freedom, flight, and the quiet thrill of watching something you built disappear briefly into the sky.
Into the Blue. Oil on Linen 95 cm x 180 cm
My entire collection of paintings since 2009 is grouped by year in chronological order.
