It’s still dark when I cycle into the courtyard outside the glassblowing hot shop and lean my bike against the side of the industrial warehouse, its chimneys reaching toward the brightening sky. My breath frosts in the air, a sign that autumn is waning and winter creeps ever closer.

The harsh caw of a crow echoes from the copse of trees that shield the warehouse from the main road. A ray of dawn turns the brick wall to the colour of crushed cochineal, a red so dark it’s almost black. The smell of rot and decay drifts on the air from the adjacent mushroom farm. I imagine the creeping threads of mycelium reaching blindly under the earth, curling around dead creatures, squirming their way toward the light.

I take off my threadbare gloves and rub my hands together to warm them before digging out the keys from my pack. There are a few hours before my shift officially starts, time enough to work on another tiny piece of my sculpture.

Production glass blowing pays the bills, but every tray load of wine glasses or tourist baubles gives me another chance to work overtime on my creation. Artisans can work here for an hourly rate, but the owner doesn’t notice, or perhaps doesn’t care, that I take my turn before the production day even starts. As long as the furnaces are blasting and ready for other workers when the clock ticks over nine, I’m left alone.

I unlock the heavy wooden door and stand for a moment in the darkness of the corridor. The cabinet looms before me, the shapes within indistinct, but I know every inch by heart.

A decade of trophies for original glass blown sculptures.

All with his name on.

I turn on the light and consider the evidence of his triumph. The carefully etched letters are a blur to me now, and they will probably worsen this winter. A year at the most, the optician said, when I last scraped up the money to visit. Avoid bright light, she said, oblivious to the burning heart of the furnace I stand before every day. It transforms base sand to ethereal glass even as it mutates me, cell by cell.   

I pass by and head to the hot shop entrance, the trophy cabinet looming behind me, like the demanding presence of a jealous god. I grab my leather apron from the locker and tie it over my jeans, the faded denim blistered with burn holes from dripping molten glass, a patchwork over my scarred skin. Every culture has its fire deity, and the furnace demands its sacrifice. Fire for blood.

Perhaps I have not given enough.

As I bang the locker door shut, a puff of air ruffles the edges of the paper announcements on the notice board. Adverts for assistants, second-hand tools for sale, and the sculpture contest guidelines displayed prominently in the centre. The deadline for entry creeps closer every day.

I turn on the bright overhead lights of the warehouse. Even though I long for the heat of the furnace, I appreciate these moments of cold solitude. The smell of metal mingled with beeswax. A lingering scent of ash from burned newspaper and smoke from flaming cork pads.

The smell of home.

It might as well be, since I spend most of my time here. I can barely stand to eat or sleep in my tiny council flat. The thin walls fail to mask the noise of the family next door, laughing and fighting, the constant chatter of a shared life.

I turn on the furnaces, readying the hot shop for the production workers and artisans who will arrive all too soon. I strip off my outer layers as the temperature rises and soon, I’m sweating in my T-shirt, my roughly cropped grey hair bound back in a marigold cotton scarf, dug out of lost property years back and tattered with repeated washing.

Some call us the truckers of the art world, sweaty, smelly, physical laborers in the heat and grime of the hot shop. Those precious writers who craft words with their minds in hushed libraries can never understand us. They remain safe in their pristine sanctuary while I sculpt with light, my scars evidence of devotion to the muse of flame.

Sunlight streams through the high windows, illuminating my test pieces of glass lined up along one frame. I need a range of colours for my final sculpture, and I have yet to find the perfect shade of crimson for its heart. I have shards of opal, coral, and tornado red, spun in frit from colour bars. I’ve experimented with ruby, fuchsia, and saffron transparents, and I’ve even tried adding copper foil.

But something is missing.

Every day I experiment with new combinations, but the dancing flame eludes me.

The main furnace is at full strength now. Two thousand degrees Fahrenheit. Hotter than a cremation incinerator and certainly more than enough to burn a body down to its elemental parts. It’s how I want to go when it’s my time. A final union of flesh and flame.

I open the glory hole and stare into the heart of the fire, safety glasses dangling at my side. My heart beats faster. The rush of light fills my vision and I can almost feel it burn away another tiny speck of who I am in exchange for another day of creation. Djinns dance in the flame, a promise of transformation, and I can’t help but smile. They don’t always appear, but when they do, the glass transfigures for me. There is no true art without pain, so I take my tiny dose every day.

Or perhaps it’s just how I feed the firebug in my soul.

With one last glance into the blaze, I put on my safety glasses and the vision fades as the light dims.

I gather molten glass with my blowpipe, legs braced apart, back muscles stiff with the initial lift of the day. The first puff of air into the hollow tube is always a relief, as if I hold my breath when I’m away from the hot shop, unwilling to exhale completely until I can bring life to a new piece.

I flash the glass in the glory hole, resting the pole on the yoke as the temperature heats it once more. A dance of motion and heat, of melting and shaping and cooling as the figure takes shape.

It is the fifth time I’ve tried this central aspect of the sculpture, and I can see the finished piece in my mind. A bird rising from a twisted prone figure in shades of blood and fire, copper and gold, surrounded by tongues of flame.

But the challenge of art is never the idea, only the execution.

I use a rubber tube attached to the end of the hollow pipe to puff a little more air into the globe, spinning the rod over the bench as I cradle it with a wet pad. Glasswork is easier with an assistant, but I’ve learned to hack the process over years working alone. I can even pull cane solo with an anchor point on the wall.

Steam rises and sweat beads on my brow. The minutes melt away as I lean into the magic of creation.

The sound of my breath.

The roar of the furnace.

The whoosh of the blowtorch as I shape the figure, curving the glass under my tagliol knife.

The door bangs, and a waft of cold air enters the hot shop.

I lose my concentration and the torch flares in my hand, the shape of the emerging phoenix muddling to a blob.

“Early again?” Jeremy says the same words in the same tone every morning.

“Lots to do.” My reply is as light as ever.

Jeremy’s award-winning pieces are technically brilliant, I acknowledge that. But he has the time and money to focus on his craft with no need for income from production glass or other menial work. He is a gentleman glassblower, with some hidden way of turning life into money with no seeming effort.

He occasionally teaches at the art college — not the beginner classes, mind you. Only the intricate and complicated later stages of glassblowing. Jeremy does not tolerate amateurs.

He lives with his family on the other side of town in a large house passed down by his grandfather. I attended one of his victory parties a few years back when he still considered me worth inviting. The chandeliers were antique Venetian, the wine glasses individually hand crafted, and his artworks perched like glorious birds of paradise all over the house.

His winning sculpture that year sat on a mahogany table, pride of place in what they called the drawing room. A stark piece in black and clear glass, a man’s torso with the figure of a child nestled within.

His only son. His muse. Each of his winning pieces has featured some aspect of their relationship. The play of light and dark, the love of a father for his son.

I exhale sharply into my blowpipe, expelling withheld words into glass.

Jeremy goes to his station and begins his routine, selecting his preferred colour bars.

The tap of the hammer.

The squeak of hinges on his glory hole.

The puff of his first breath.

I can’t help but imagine what he might create this time. I know I should keep my gaze in my own lane, but with so little time left, it’s hard not to think about it.

I pour some water on the jack point and tap the punty. The glass breaks at its weakest point and my ruined piece drops into the metal bucket. The clink of shattering glass is a sound glassblowers know well. Jeremy doesn’t even look up.

I gather molten glass once more, this time for the first production of the day, and as I walk back to my bench, I glance over at his.

Pistachio and olive green colour bars. Turquoise and even some blue aventurine, the cobalt inclusions creating silvery metallic sparkles. He has artistic range, that’s for sure, and every year, Jeremy has surprised the judges by pushing the boundaries of his technical ability.

He keeps his creation process hidden and even has a personal annealer in the corner of the warehouse. His glass cools away from the mass production boxes where I have to edge my art into corners when there is space. I have glimpsed some of his pieces, all over-sized with organic curves, but I can’t picture what they might become.

The door bangs again and a young man walks in, his lanky frame erect with the confident swagger of the privileged. His dark hair is close cropped, his skin has the burnished glow of youth and the evidence of a late holiday in the sun. His profile matches his father’s but without the wrinkles and burn marks from years in front of a hot furnace.

“Come in, Isaac.”

Jeremy beckons him over. His son pulls out his phone to check a message before sauntering over to the bench.

Isaac glances at me as he walks by, and I see a glimmer of curiosity as his gaze slides towards the open door of the glory hole. Perhaps there is a firebug in him waiting to ignite.

I still remember my first time in the hot shop, the roar and heat of the furnace and smoke billowing from wet pads applied to burning glass. A dangerous art, for sure, but at least here, I make my own scars. Pain has a different quality if you choose it.

“Let’s start with something simple.”

I tune out Jeremy’s words and Isaac’s grunted replies as I shift into the rhythm of repetitive production.

Gather. Turn. Blow. Shape. Cool.

I can do this with my eyes closed. Perhaps I will need to do it that way soon enough.

The hours pass and the conversation behind me becomes heated. The sound of smashing glass happens too often to be ignored.

Isaac is not a willing student, or at least not inclined to learn from his father. I hear frustration in Jeremy’s voice, a desire to share genuine passion with his son. Yet somehow, he can’t get through.

A crash of glass against metal.

“That’s enough.” Jeremy bites out his words. “I don’t have time for this. Go help Cass. She might even teach you a thing or two. At least you’ll only break cheap production glass.”

His words dismiss my years of experience, and the heavy workload that pays the bills. I ignore them, bracing my shoulders as I flash glass in the glory hole, leaning toward the dry heat, relishing the sweat on my skin. I sit down at the bench again and turn the pipe, keeping the glass moving, shaping it with callipers.

Hesitant footsteps approach on the concrete behind me and I feel his gaze on my back. I turn my head, sharp words on the tip of my tongue ready to cut him down and send him back to his father.

But Isaac’s gaze is fixed on the turning glass in my hands, reflected sparks from the furnace leaping in his eyes. Perhaps we both compare ourselves to the master craftsman and find ourselves wanting.

I swallow my cutting words as he walks to the side of my bench.

“What are you making?”

“A batch of wine glasses for a catering company.” I nod toward the annealer where the finished glasses cool slowly. “They all have to be exactly the same.”

Isaac picks up a pair of shears. “I’ve used these at school. We made some simple vessels. I know it’s not much but…”

His words trail off and I see myself years ago. The art of glassblowing is ancient, passed down from master to apprentice for thousands of years. Perhaps Isaac just needs the right teacher.

“Can you blow as I turn?”

He nods and bites his lip. “Yes, I’ve done that before.”

“Okay, just let me finish this one.”

Isaac grabs two heavy gloves. “I can put it in the annealer if you like.”

I look down at the almost finished piece and weigh up the risk. More smashed glass, more wasted time. But if he can be of use, we might even finish early.

He crouches down, gloves ready, his gaze fixed intently on the turning glass. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He holds his breath in concentration.

“Ready?”

He nods.

I dribble water on the jack point, then tap the pipe with my callipers.

The finished wine glass drops onto his gloves. He holds it like a precious chalice, his grip gentle but firm.

I walk ahead of him to the annealer and open the door, half-expecting a crash behind me. But he places the glass gently inside next to the others with no mishap.

As I close the door, his breath comes fast, his cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. Perhaps he might be useful after all.

“Let’s do another.”

We work in silence on the next glass, and the next. He shows no sign of tiring or boredom and we both ignore Jeremy working behind us, even though I sense the intensity of his gaze now and then.

Eventually he stalks across the floor and stands over us, looming like a professor about to give a lecture. My back muscles tense and I’m acutely aware of the blue-collar vessel at the end of my turning pole. No doubt Jeremy hasn’t made something so basic for decades.

“Thanks, Cass. I hope he hasn’t been any trouble.”

“Quite the opposite. After all, we’re only working on cheap production glass.”

There’s a flicker of annoyance in his eyes and his mouth tightens a little at my retort. He looks at his son.

“I’m heading off now. Want a lift home?”

Isaac glances up from where he kneels at the end of the pipe. A new supplicant to an ancient art.

“No, I’ll head back later.” He looks at me. “If that’s okay with you, Cass?”

“Of course.”

Jeremy exhales heavily. “I’ll see you at home later.”

The door bangs on his way out and the atmosphere in the hot shop lifts. There is no judgment in the flame and Isaac blossoms once his father has gone.

We pull ahead of my usual schedule, and I let him have a go at gathering and turning a piece. As he flashes the bulb, he pushes too hard on the yoke.

The glass smashes against the side of the furnace, tinkling onto the concrete.

“I’m sorry, I’m so clumsy.” He places the punty to one side and bends to sweep up the glass, dumping it in the metal bucket.

“It’s the sound of learning. A totally normal part of glasswork.”

He smiles up at me, relief in his eyes.

We get back to it and within a few tries, he manages to make a plain wine glass. It’s not perfect, but it’s functional and it’s more than he has ever made with his father. He places it in the annealer with a smile of pride on his lips.

As we walk back to the furnace together, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

He pulls it out, reads the text, shakes his head with a sigh. “Dad.”

Isaac bashes out a reply, his thumbs moving quickly. “He’ll get mad if he knows I’m still here with you. I’ll say I’m with a friend who lives nearby.” He glances up. “Is it okay if I stay a little longer? Maybe you can show me how to make something else?”

I don’t have the time, but his expectant gaze is that of a true apprentice.

I nod. “Of course.”

He finishes the text and smiles up at me, his attention diverted for a split second.

The phone slips out of his hand, landing in the metal bucket of broken glass shards by the side of the furnace.

He reaches down before I can stop him.

His palm catches on a sharp edge, and he jerks away, clutching his hand.

Blood drips from between his fingers down onto the shards of glass, catching the light from the furnace.

Ruby. Carnelian. A hint of Emperor purple.

The missing shade.

A second stretches out, a twisted glass cane of possible futures.

With one hand I reach for a thick pad and with the other, I pick up the tagliol knife.

 

* * *

 

A month later, I stand in front of the trophy cabinet. My name is etched on the copperplate where it belongs, even though I can hardly make out the words now.

The judges noted my particular use of colour, the intensity of red at the heart of the phoenix, giving its life to the fire as it rises from ash into new life.

As I grab my leather apron from the locker, the air ruffles the edges of a Missing notice. The beloved son of a prominent glass artist gone before his time.

 

Author’s Note

 

During the pandemic lockdowns, many of us escaped into binge-watching Netflix. I discovered the world of glassblowing and the intensity of the hot shop through Blown Away, a reality show based around glass art. The characters of the first series and the danger inherent in flames, metal, and molten glass inspired this story.