Within the clinks and clanks of a glass factory, a peculiar thought unfurls. You stop looking and start watching the motley crew of artsy souls, toiling away synchronously; their movements akin to a dissonant symphony of molten sand and fire. The movements, all so perfectly rehearsed, as if it is in the memory of their tiniest of muscles. From large movements to nimble ones, all so carefully performed, one after the other, it all starts to look like a dance.
Then of course there is glass. The material itself is so fascinating that one could draw its parallel to life itself. The fragility of existence, the heat one must go through to be able to mould oneself into a form that’s beautiful and how each one of us mirror the delicate craftsmanship, the work of time and effort within our walls, coaxing life, like molten glass, into intricate patterns.
It’s poetry. Every piece carrying a weight as if it were narrating the grandest of story ever told. This is probably why, when you see beautiful glass, your eyes glisten.
Half way down this mental monologue, I wondered if the glass workers find solace in their art. Solace in the fact that in a world full of fleeting moments, there is something in this world that contained a part of their ephemeral existence?
In the fading light of a regular day, the glass factory becomes more than just a workplace. It becomes the theatre of craftsmanship and dreams – built in glass.