This Dance Would Be Our Last… by De’Viannah Perkins

Our last hours spent together of unspoken, harmonious communication to create my most intricate piece. I was told it was a special commission for an old husband to his wife. My teacher gave me the reins, him acting as my assistant just as I used to. The long, steel pipe suddenly felt heavy in my hands as it entered the furnace. Near me, my teacher stood in an unmovable silence. I knew he would offer no more guidance. The molten glass began to cling to the pipe, as would gum to a hard surface. When I believed it to be enough, I moved my glob of taffy-like glass to the marver. It would need to be formed with great care and handled gently. My grip on the pipe tightened. It was my subtle attempt at steadying my shaking hands. I didn’t want my teacher to see my nerves. I needed to appear as confident as he did all those years ago. I remember watching in awe as he turned soft glass, the color of sunsets, into bubbles that I felt I could reach out and pop. He warned my childish touch away. “You’ll turn your fingers to crisps, then what will you do?” he said. I hid my hands behind my back and nodded. I remember how his skillful movements held me. I was entranced by his work so much so that it was all I could think about for days to come.

My centerpiece was finally the size I needed it to be. I moved with caution and grace as if I were a princess with books balanced on top of my head, from the marver to the bench, where my teacher sat, holding another pipe for me to attach the punty to. Gravity. Heat. Rotation. Words he had repeated, over and over until I began to hear them in my sleep. The balance was important. Rotation was the fight against gravity pulling the glass down. Maintaining the heat was to keep the piece shapeable. He observed from close by. Occasionally, I caught a glimpse of his hand flinching towards the pipe, but I pretended not to notice. With the jack in one hand, I pinched and pulled at the slowly hardening glass, twisting the steel with the other until I had formed what I felt was the perfect teardrop. 

Creating the petals would be harder. I felt the pressure only from myself as I attempted to sculpt a perfect replica of earth’s natural delicacy. Here is where my teacher offered his help, keeping the steady turn of the pipe as I assembled puzzle pieces into a bigger picture. We moved to and from the furnace, our partnership speaking for itself as we knew one another’s needs. Sweat inched down my brow. Although I was used to the heat, it never made the studio any more bearable to be in. Time was nonexistent as it became lost in our quiet song. I think it had been around midday when we started, but now evening was quickly approaching. The sun sank slowly towards the horizon, bathing the room in the same colors as the embers from the furnace. 

When my teacher’s rotating of the pipe had ended, it was then I noticed the flower was done. I looked up at him, worried about he might say. Instead, he only smiled his usual comforting smile. It was a small smile, but it was enough. With great care to avoid damage, I separated the flower from the punty before placing it in the annealer, where it would not shatter but solidify overnight. In the morning, there would be a finished magnolia, a parting gift from an old husband to his wife. 

There my teacher would leave me, formed, hardened, a created masterpiece.