November 16, 2012
Murano
It is not miraculous. Only a handful of silica, fire, and then the blower twirls another knob of gold on his metal pontil, dipping the tip into a pot inlaid with spikes to make the burning globe twist in upon itself as the man breathes out and a thin neck bulges, wreathes into a spiral like a unicorn’s horn; but we’re bored, he’s bored, blowing and blowing the same shape over. It takes no effort. He stares off through one of the factory windows as he does it, beneath a sign, No flash, a red line drawn through a cartoon camera READ MORE >>
