Post by Naomi Verre de Forgernon (I) on May 4, 2008 22:26:46 GMT -5
Dusk is a magical time, as the sun lays its weary head down and the moon wakes as if outstretching her hands to her lover, the sun. It is heartbreaking that the two could never meet, and I am reminded of a tale of two lovers who could never be, since their families were always at odds with one another. Yet their homes shared one common wall and there upon it was a crack from whence the two lovers might whisper all their hearts desires to the other. An eternity could have been lived in those susurrations.
It was with those things in mind that I set to work on my next piece. It would be a living entity of longing, and no doubt I would sweat much before the time came that I would be finished. Used to the heat, I barely checked the water clock upon the wall as I eased aside the door to the kiln. Within, all was like the sun in hues of brilliant white, red, orange, yellow and cobalt. It was the cobalt I feared the most of all that heat because I know that in that small slice of color flesh and bone could melt away to nothing.
Hell’s breath billowed from the kiln as I stretched the iron tongs within to retrieve what would become my work. It glowed with a pulsing sort of energy that never failed to amaze, and thrill me. Heady with this sense of danger that only comes from working with such hot material; I set to work shaping the base before moving the sphere of freshly made glass to the end of a gaffer’s tube with the flick of my pontil. This is one of the glass mason’s greatest tools. For some it takes years of practice to learn not only to use them, but to master the shaping of a thing with barely a shallow spoon like end of one of them. Luckily as my father often pointed out, I was a natural. Yet, even for a natural like myself, I would be bent over the wheel for hours. Long, exhausting hours that leave even the most fit of us weary.
Setting the tube onto a willet’s wheel, I set it to spinning gently and pressed my mouth into the fluted end. Opposite to where my mouth was, was the globe of glass that would be my finished product. Shifting, writhing almost it slowly grew as my hand; steady on the tube worked it slowly, round and round. Balancing the growing mass was the pontil in my free hand, and on my forehead were the beads of sweat from my labors. For those who have never seen glass made, nor the things made of glass which we are known for, it may be hard to fathom that there is much effort. Enough to make a body sweat, and beneath the leather apron I wore my gown was already soaked, clinging to the curves and hollows of my body like a lover’s hands might. In my nostrils is the scent of sand and fire, of char and smoke and of violets and rainwater. My own personal scent should not have seemed so appropriate in my surroundings and yet somehow it was.
Once I was satisfied with the overall shape of my creation, I slowed the willet’s wheel and began the process of adding color by introducing soft or hard minerals. Each one would give me a different stroke of color, and much like a painters brush, I plied my own brand of creativity with mad trap exhilaration that left me breathless but joyous. There before me was an elegant jar that was brilliant like the sun at the base, yet cool like the first caress of evening at the top. Between were the colors I had hoped for, worked and sweated for. A hush of sunset captured now forever in glass. A windswept dream, marked by the willowy way each color melded into the next. The yearning of lovers that could never touch, never kiss and caress one another’s naked bodies was pronounced with the diminutive tendrils of color that spiked here and there toward the apex of the vase itself.
When I rose finally, famished yet sated from my exertions it was with my fingers splayed against the small of my back. It was almost as if I had carried the world on my spine while I had been hunched over my work and now that I was upright once more, my body told me of its displeasure. It was an ache I was well used to, but never simply put up with.
Upon retiring from the shop, a bath would be drawn and there I would lounge amidst the scent of violet and rainwater, until I was once more as limber as an overcooked noodle. And when my bath was finished, and I was properly attired, I would attend the front of our house where we kept stock of all our creations for the public to enjoy and purchase at their leisure. My father had had several patrons while I was growing up, and now with the eagerness of a virgin bride I too, sought the ardent favor of a patron, the perfect suitor to the bride of my endeavors.
Unlike my father, my creations were bolder, bright and perhaps a bit more provocative. There were subtle innuendos in several of my pieces that were perhaps not to liking of the house’s former patrons and so with that in mind I tried my best to tone down the allure of the pieces I created. Hopefully with the Windswept Dream, I had not put too much passion into the piece.
But would it garner interest? In the end, I had only my houses’ reputation and that of my own skill to hold me steady until I saw what there was to see by way of opinion later.
It was with those things in mind that I set to work on my next piece. It would be a living entity of longing, and no doubt I would sweat much before the time came that I would be finished. Used to the heat, I barely checked the water clock upon the wall as I eased aside the door to the kiln. Within, all was like the sun in hues of brilliant white, red, orange, yellow and cobalt. It was the cobalt I feared the most of all that heat because I know that in that small slice of color flesh and bone could melt away to nothing.
Hell’s breath billowed from the kiln as I stretched the iron tongs within to retrieve what would become my work. It glowed with a pulsing sort of energy that never failed to amaze, and thrill me. Heady with this sense of danger that only comes from working with such hot material; I set to work shaping the base before moving the sphere of freshly made glass to the end of a gaffer’s tube with the flick of my pontil. This is one of the glass mason’s greatest tools. For some it takes years of practice to learn not only to use them, but to master the shaping of a thing with barely a shallow spoon like end of one of them. Luckily as my father often pointed out, I was a natural. Yet, even for a natural like myself, I would be bent over the wheel for hours. Long, exhausting hours that leave even the most fit of us weary.
Setting the tube onto a willet’s wheel, I set it to spinning gently and pressed my mouth into the fluted end. Opposite to where my mouth was, was the globe of glass that would be my finished product. Shifting, writhing almost it slowly grew as my hand; steady on the tube worked it slowly, round and round. Balancing the growing mass was the pontil in my free hand, and on my forehead were the beads of sweat from my labors. For those who have never seen glass made, nor the things made of glass which we are known for, it may be hard to fathom that there is much effort. Enough to make a body sweat, and beneath the leather apron I wore my gown was already soaked, clinging to the curves and hollows of my body like a lover’s hands might. In my nostrils is the scent of sand and fire, of char and smoke and of violets and rainwater. My own personal scent should not have seemed so appropriate in my surroundings and yet somehow it was.
Once I was satisfied with the overall shape of my creation, I slowed the willet’s wheel and began the process of adding color by introducing soft or hard minerals. Each one would give me a different stroke of color, and much like a painters brush, I plied my own brand of creativity with mad trap exhilaration that left me breathless but joyous. There before me was an elegant jar that was brilliant like the sun at the base, yet cool like the first caress of evening at the top. Between were the colors I had hoped for, worked and sweated for. A hush of sunset captured now forever in glass. A windswept dream, marked by the willowy way each color melded into the next. The yearning of lovers that could never touch, never kiss and caress one another’s naked bodies was pronounced with the diminutive tendrils of color that spiked here and there toward the apex of the vase itself.
When I rose finally, famished yet sated from my exertions it was with my fingers splayed against the small of my back. It was almost as if I had carried the world on my spine while I had been hunched over my work and now that I was upright once more, my body told me of its displeasure. It was an ache I was well used to, but never simply put up with.
Upon retiring from the shop, a bath would be drawn and there I would lounge amidst the scent of violet and rainwater, until I was once more as limber as an overcooked noodle. And when my bath was finished, and I was properly attired, I would attend the front of our house where we kept stock of all our creations for the public to enjoy and purchase at their leisure. My father had had several patrons while I was growing up, and now with the eagerness of a virgin bride I too, sought the ardent favor of a patron, the perfect suitor to the bride of my endeavors.
Unlike my father, my creations were bolder, bright and perhaps a bit more provocative. There were subtle innuendos in several of my pieces that were perhaps not to liking of the house’s former patrons and so with that in mind I tried my best to tone down the allure of the pieces I created. Hopefully with the Windswept Dream, I had not put too much passion into the piece.
But would it garner interest? In the end, I had only my houses’ reputation and that of my own skill to hold me steady until I saw what there was to see by way of opinion later.