Flashes of coloured wool, stripe follows stripe, the shuttle scuttles from side to side, the treadle clatters. The city sleeps but the weaver is already at her loom. Long ago, in the middle of Latvia.
Fire glow, stifling hot air. The fire subjugates and the glass submits. In 40 degree heat with a sweat covered brow, the glass blower blows like a pump into the very heart of the glass blob.
The emerald green bottle that once held a wine with an exquisite bouquet is now a cast for a candle.With great care, as if it were a fragile gem, the candle maker arranges the wick.