The Glass Studio – Part 1: Hot Glass

"It takes as long as it takes," said Marco.

"I have a deadline," said Elena.

"The glass does not."

She had come to the island by water bus on a bright March morning, a lighting designer from Milan with a sketchbook and a client who wanted a lamp that looked like captured moonlight. The studio was a long brick room with a roaring furnace at one end and shelves of green and amber bottles along the walls. The heat hit her at the door like a warm hand.

Marco was thirty-seven, broad in the shoulder, with burn scars on his forearms and a quiet manner. He took her drawing, studied it for a full minute and said, "It can be done. It cannot be rushed."

"How long?"

"Come back tomorrow. And the day after."

She meant to say no. She came back the next day.

He let her watch. He gathered a glowing orange blob on the end of a long iron pipe, rolled it on a steel table, and blew, slow and steady, until it swelled into a bubble. His cheeks puffed, his eyes narrowed. "You breathe into it," he said. "Too hard and it bursts. Too soft and it collapses."

"That sounds like a metaphor."

"It is also just glass."

On the third day he handed her the pipe. "Your turn."

She stood in front of the furnace with sweat running down her back and the pipe heavy in her hands. Marco stood behind her, close, one hand under hers on the iron, the other at her waist to keep her steady. "Turn," he said, quietly. "Always turn. Now breathe."

The bubble swelled, a trembling gold globe. She laughed out loud.

"There," said Marco, near her ear. "Now you know."

She could feel his breath on her neck. She did not move away.

"Marco."

"Yes."

"Is it still just glass?"

He laughed, low. "Come to dinner. Then ask me again."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Annealing.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Annealing.