This morning the light fell on the table in just the right way to showcase a set of foot-high pitchers that Uncle Bob made about fifty years ago, and the result was spectacular. They are amber and red, elegant and symmetrical. The crackled glass is gorgeous, pure and phosphorescent. They're simply beautiful and simple, expertly crafted, with smooth, even tops, well-sealed handles and all the attention to detail that only a true glass master could accomplish.
How many times I've walked through that room and not seen the beauty exuded by these timeless pieces. This morning was different. The window light was diffused perfectly by the curtains to light the glass through and through without being overly bright. Mother nature had constructed her own light box to eliminate distracting reflections, and to enhance the mystery of the glass by wrapping them in a celestial aura.
Life is good when we take time to stop and smell the roses or find time to observe art. How things so old and nearly forgotten can come alive when we open our eyes and see in a new way. Peering into the lovely works of glass artists, who practice a time-honored tradition, is one of my favorite ways to exact revenge on a cruel world. As a child, I remember watching my uncles Bob, Leo and Don, performing their magic in the studio, just like pulling rabbits out of a hat. My father worked alongside them, and all seemed like magicians of the highest order to me. Incidentally, dad still talks about how his father had him doing fairly high-level work in the glass factory when he was just a young child. Of course, dad jumped at the opportunity to work alongside the accomplished glassblowers, and to participate in the artful process of making hand blown glass. Whether he was gathering from the furnace or polishing a rough edge, dad was never more at home than when he was helping out in the old Scott Depot factory. Aunt Dorothy worked in the family glass business, as well, helping in the packing room, wrapping communion glasses, taking orders over the phone and waiting on customers in the gift shop.
All these years later, I still get misty-eyed looking at the marvelous works created by my father, his brothers and only sister -- creations that stand the test of time, like these vases. I am reminded that art exists in this crazy world of ours to help us recover our lost soul. I'll update this blog when I find time to photograph the vases. But, I assure you, a photograph will not do it justice, nor can I duplicate that special, quicksilver moment that occurred this morning when the sun splashed through the window and onto the table in the perfect, soft, feathery way, as if an angel had arranged an exquisite view of an old fashioned set of handcrafted vases -- gifts that keep on giving.