Post by Naomi Verre de Forgernon (I) on May 1, 2008 14:52:14 GMT -5
For as long as I can remember the white artiface of the Maison de Verre has stood out from the others along the street with its stained glass windows and skillfully wrought ironed fence. Growing up there holds all of my fondest memories, and houses some of my deepest seeded desires. Namely among them is the passion that I harbor for the craft past to me from my father, Bastion Verre de Forgernon. Although he longed for a son, my mother Sophie was never able to bear him but daughters. I have three sisters, and all are married happily to D’Angeline men. To that, I should also admit that I have nieces and to my father’s credit, nephews aplenty. It is a hot house, full of flowers from the gardens carefully tended by Jernome, one of my father’s men and Denise his plump wife who to this day runs the kitchen with a ruthless sort of efficiency. She is a woman no doubt that many might think hail from Kusheth, although she herself says she was born and raised along the coast of Marsilikos. Such things do not matter to me, for I love her anyway.
Digress as I have, I should point out that yes I still dwell in the house that my father in turn grew up in. This house has been in our family for as many generations as the City of Elua has stood. We are a known family, though we are not peerage, and to be honest I am not sure I would do well as a member of court. No courtier am I, although let us be truthful, I am D’Angeline and there is something to be said about the sport of the boudoir. Games of flattery and of courtship are even played by those who hold no title, although you’ll not catch me. No, I have little time these days for the banter of a lover’s lips.
When I look out onto the street I am reminded that I might not have been a glass artist had my father and mother had their way. My mother was born and bred in Byrony House and although she would have liked to see one of her brood admitted through its doors, we were none of us adept at business. And to this day, it is she who watches over the books of our House and sits on the Guild Council on my father’s behalf. He and I are of a like, we are happiest when at our craft. I fought to achieve my place within that room of sand and blinding, searing heat. At first the art was merely a curiosity, being a young child I would often watch my father take a mere bubble of white and red heated sand and turn it into something pulsing with life and color. It was while watching him that I became infatuated with the art of blowing glass. It seemed as if the world itself stopped as tubes are turned and your breath gives life to a thing of great beauty.
Needless to say I was banned from learning since I was only a girl, and the youngest at that, but I had other plans and that included a clandestine visit to the workroom of the house while my parents were away for a fete. Barely more than ten, I gathered up sand and sieve, tubing and pontils and attempted my first creation with my heart slamming in my breast and my hands weak with euphoria. No sooner had I started with my lips barely creasing the end of the gaffer’s tube, that my beloved creation became a monster, growing without direction or proportion. As terrified as I was, there was no turning back and I tried with pontils and patience to craft something of beauty from so hideous a thing. It got me nothing but a burn on the inside of my left wrist. The pain I remember to this day and I will tell you it was worse than any other pain save that of the heart. My flesh recoiled, then opened and I was little better than a weeping mass, quivering like a bow strung too tight, begging for surcease.
Thankfully, I needn’t have worried. The moment my father found out he was enraged and then contrite. I had always been a willful child and with this there was no exception. Doggedly I trailed after him, begging to learn, begging to be given the secrets and finally he relented. Six weeks to the day I turned ten my father gathered the family and announced that he would take me as his apprentice. Since there were no sons among us, there could be no dispute. I sweated and swore, I prayed and above all … I learned. No father could be prouder of his child and now it is I who am called the Artist de Verre, the Artist of Glass. Come … see my creations and enjoy the fruits of my labor. I entreat you to challenge me, to try your best to thwart my skill. After all, what good is beauty if it merely goes to waste?
Digress as I have, I should point out that yes I still dwell in the house that my father in turn grew up in. This house has been in our family for as many generations as the City of Elua has stood. We are a known family, though we are not peerage, and to be honest I am not sure I would do well as a member of court. No courtier am I, although let us be truthful, I am D’Angeline and there is something to be said about the sport of the boudoir. Games of flattery and of courtship are even played by those who hold no title, although you’ll not catch me. No, I have little time these days for the banter of a lover’s lips.
When I look out onto the street I am reminded that I might not have been a glass artist had my father and mother had their way. My mother was born and bred in Byrony House and although she would have liked to see one of her brood admitted through its doors, we were none of us adept at business. And to this day, it is she who watches over the books of our House and sits on the Guild Council on my father’s behalf. He and I are of a like, we are happiest when at our craft. I fought to achieve my place within that room of sand and blinding, searing heat. At first the art was merely a curiosity, being a young child I would often watch my father take a mere bubble of white and red heated sand and turn it into something pulsing with life and color. It was while watching him that I became infatuated with the art of blowing glass. It seemed as if the world itself stopped as tubes are turned and your breath gives life to a thing of great beauty.
Needless to say I was banned from learning since I was only a girl, and the youngest at that, but I had other plans and that included a clandestine visit to the workroom of the house while my parents were away for a fete. Barely more than ten, I gathered up sand and sieve, tubing and pontils and attempted my first creation with my heart slamming in my breast and my hands weak with euphoria. No sooner had I started with my lips barely creasing the end of the gaffer’s tube, that my beloved creation became a monster, growing without direction or proportion. As terrified as I was, there was no turning back and I tried with pontils and patience to craft something of beauty from so hideous a thing. It got me nothing but a burn on the inside of my left wrist. The pain I remember to this day and I will tell you it was worse than any other pain save that of the heart. My flesh recoiled, then opened and I was little better than a weeping mass, quivering like a bow strung too tight, begging for surcease.
Thankfully, I needn’t have worried. The moment my father found out he was enraged and then contrite. I had always been a willful child and with this there was no exception. Doggedly I trailed after him, begging to learn, begging to be given the secrets and finally he relented. Six weeks to the day I turned ten my father gathered the family and announced that he would take me as his apprentice. Since there were no sons among us, there could be no dispute. I sweated and swore, I prayed and above all … I learned. No father could be prouder of his child and now it is I who am called the Artist de Verre, the Artist of Glass. Come … see my creations and enjoy the fruits of my labor. I entreat you to challenge me, to try your best to thwart my skill. After all, what good is beauty if it merely goes to waste?