Ill never forget the day Rutherford, the owner of the ArtGlassCo gallery in Birmingham, leaned over me and hissed, Youve smashed my mirror, so you owe me seven years of work. He was so close I could smell his peppermint aftershave. The shards of a Venetianstyle canvas rang beneath my shoes, catching the ceiling spotlights like a thousand tiny camera flashes. A lump of dust sat in my throat: you can survive anything, but the sound of breaking glass when the frame costs as much as a years salary is another matter.
Ill pay, I managed.
Pay? With what? Your crooked shop windows? From now on you work for free until the debt is cleared, he snapped.
Fifteen years earlier I was a little girl in my grandfathers mirrormaking workshop, chasing reflections in scraps of amalgam. Granddad would hand me a piece of apple nougat and say, Glass holds the truth. It can be scary to look, but if you arent afraid youll understand yourself better. When he died, my mother sold the shop and I headed to London to study industrial design, picking up windowdisplay work on the side. Thats where Rutherford first saw me tall, charming, promising a solo exhibition in exchange for a few sketches.
At first he called me his muse of space, kissing my hand after every successful project. Then hed give friendly critiques: The highlights are too cold, add some warmth. It felt harsh but useful. By spring his tone shifted: What texture are you after if you cant even get the dimensions right? Soon after came fines for spoiled materials. I kept telling myself, Hes strict because I can do better.
One June evening I was rearranging pedestals for a new show. At the entrance stood Rutherfords prized possession an 18thcentury mirror, its frame a lace of gilt leaf. A single centimetre of misalignment and the trolley carrying the pedestal snagged the frame. The crack sounded like a gunshot. Silence. Then a rain of shards.
You realise that was meant for the Royal Auction? Rutherford bellowed, drowning out the alarm.
Ill replace it, I muttered, scooping glass fragments into a bucket, Ill find a restorer
£250,000 if you didnt know, or seven years of servitude. Your choice.
In the gallerys basement, where the WiFi never reached, I was stamping out installations from his sketches: lenslamps, prism tables. He accepted the work but always put only his name on the tags. At night Id go home, fire up my laptop and collage the broken mirrors photos, hunting for a line where the cracks formed a face.
Once a week Lydia, a potter from the neighbouring studio, would drop by.
Where have you vanished to? Youve gone quiet in the group chat.
Serving a debt, I waved her off.
She glanced at my hunched shoulders and calloused palms. You know how they break glass to make stainedglass windows? Heat it to the point of screaming, then slam it cold.
Thanks for the metaphor, I smirked. Speaking of metaphors, Ive got a pile of broken pottery in the back. Take what you need. Piece by piece well make something new.
Autumn brought Oliver Shaw, curator of the traveling Bright Light Festival, to the city. He was scouting for artists to stage a night performance at the old Manchester railway station. We showed him Rutherfords proposals; Oliver nodded politely, but his gaze lingered on a basket of shattered glass in the corner.
Who worked on that?
Junk, Rutherford replied quickly. Nobody cares.
I lifted my chin. I do.
Outside, Oliver approached me.
Show me the sketches you hide from everyone.
If I talk, Ill be fired.
He handed me a card.
Then meet me where your boss cant follow. Tomorrow at eight, Platform 13.
The platform was empty, only rusted clocks ticking under a leaky roof. I pulled up a 3D model on my tablet: a gigantic cracked mask, its interior a maze of mirrored walls. Projector beams would dance across the shards, spelling out phrases like your hands are crooked, youre a debtor, youre nothing. The nearer a visitor got to the centre, the more the words would melt away until the surface was spotless, reflecting only their own faces.
Oliver stared, then whispered, Thats not an installation. Its a personal revolution in 360 degrees. Lets do it.
I have no budget, no materials. Everything broken belongs to the gallery.
Well find materials. Permissions you decide how far youre willing to go.
In the first weeks we scavenged trash: discarded hotel mirrors, Lydias broken pottery, empty frames from car boot sales. Nights found me cutting glass at the derelict factory, sanding edges with sandpaper, heating pieces with a hairdryer. Lydia fired her ceramic puzzles so the fragments held together.
One midnight Rutherford burst in.
Heard youre building something at the station. Stealing my mirrors now?
The ones I broke? Ive already paid, I said, sliding him receipts. The last months Id been living on instant noodles, sending every advance to the restorer who quietly reassembled the Venetianstyle frame piece by piece.
Without my brand no one knows you. Want to be an artist? Fine, but after a theft trial youll end up a memestar.
Try me. Judges love a good spectacle.
Opening night arrived. The abandoned station glowed under ultraviolet light. A line of visitors snaked along the rails, each handed headphones for an audio guide. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets, palms trembling.
Breathe steady, captain, Lydia whispered, patting my shoulder.
Inside, the mirror maze smelled of fresh dust and turpentine. People stepped carefully, aware that a reflection could bite. Words flickered on the walls: pale moth, gray mouse, sevenyear debtor. I had recorded those shouts in my phone when Rutherford yelled in the basement.
At the centre of the mask lay a bare circle of white light. A visitor emerging from the tunnel saw themselves whole no cracks, no accusations. The music faded into silence.
Applause rose slowly, as if people were relearning how to clap. Oliver stepped forward.
Author, come forward.
I climbed onto the platform. Light fell on my face, tiny mirror flakes on my denim jacket scattering a rainbow.
Suddenly Rutherford crashed in.
All those shards belong to me! She stole the project!
Oliver, holding a microphone, asked, Mr?
Rutherford Corbyn! ArtGlassCo!
Do you confirm these words are yours? he said, pointing at the walls where the fractured phrases ran.
Rutherford blinked.
Its a montage! Libel!
The
