Im the sort of bloke whos spent more time watching glass shatter than most people have spent watching football. It all started the day I walked into GlassWorks Gallery on Oxford Street and heard Graham, the owner, hiss at me, Youve smashed my mirror, so youll owe me seven years. He leaned in so close I could smell the peppermint spray on his coat. The fragments of a Victorian tapestry crackled beneath my boots, catching the ceiling spotlights like a thousand tiny camera flashes. A gritty lump sat in my throat: I could survive any hardship, but the sound of breaking glass when the frame costs as much as a years salary was something else.
Ill pay, Alice whispered, her voice barely moving the air.
Pay? With what? Your crooked shop windows? From now on you work for free until the debt is cleared, Graham snapped.
Fifteen years earlier, little Alice had sat in her grandfathers mirrormaking workshop, chasing reflections in scraps of amalgam. Granddad would hand her an appleflavored marshmallow and say, Glass holds the truth. It can be terrifying to look, but if youre brave youll see yourself better. When he died, her mother sold the shop, and Alice headed to London to study industrial design, picking up a job dressing shop fronts. Thats where Graham first saw her tall, charming, promising a solo exhibition in exchange for a few sketches.
At first he called her his muse of space, kissing her hand after every successful project. Then hed offer friendly criticism: Those highlights are too cold, add some warmth. It felt sharp but useful. By spring his tone shifted: What texture are you talking about if you cant even get the dimensions right? Soon fines for spoilage of materials started piling up. Alice tried to convince herself, Hes strict because I can do better.
One June evening she was rearranging podiums for a new show. At the entrance stood Grahams prized possession an 18thcentury mirror with a frame of gilt leaf. A single centimetre of misalignment and the trolley carrying the podium snagged the frame. The crack sounded like a gunshot. A beat later, shards rained down.
Do you realise that was meant for the Royal Auction? Graham roared, drowning out the alarm.
Ill replace it, Alice muttered, scooping glass bits into a bucket, Ill find restorers
£250,000 if you didnt know. Or seven years of servitude. Your pick, he snarled.
In the gallerys basement, where WiFi never reached, Alice stamped out installations from his sketches lenslamps, prism tables. Graham accepted the work, slapping his name on every label. At night shed sit at her laptop, stitching together photos of the broken mirror into a digital collage, hunting for a line where the cracks formed a face.
Once a week Megan, a potter from the next studio, would drop by.
Where have you vanished? Youve gone silent on the group chat.
Serving my debt, Alice waved her off.
Megan eyed Alices slumped shoulders and calloused palms. You know how they break glass to make stainedglass windows? They heat it to the point of agony, then slam it into ice.
Nice metaphor, Alice smiled. Got any broken pottery? I could use some.
Megan grinned. My warehouse is full of it. Piece by piece well make something new.
Autumn brought James Hargreaves, curator of the Brighton Light Festival, scouting for artists for a nighttime performance at the old Brighton Station. He was shown Grahams projects; he nodded politely, but his gaze lingered on a basket of shattered glass in the corner.
Who worked on this?
Just waste, Graham replied briskly. Nobody cares.
Alice lifted her chin. I do.
Outside, James approached her. Show me the sketches you keep hidden.
If I talk, Ill be sacked.
He handed her a card. Then meet me where your boss cant follow. Tomorrow, eight a.m., Platform 13.
The platform was empty, only rusted clocks ticking under the roof. Alice opened a 3D model on her tablet: a colossal cracked mask, its interior a maze of mirrored walls. Projector beams danced across the shards, spelling out phrases your hands are crooked, youre in debt, youre nothing. The nearer you got to the centre, the more the words dissolved until the surface was smooth, reflecting only the viewers face.
James stood silent, then whispered, Thats not an installation. Its a 360degree personal revolt. Lets do it.
I have no budget, no materials. Everything broken belongs to the gallery.
Well scrounge the materials. Permissions you decide how far youre willing to go.
In the following weeks they gathered trash: discarded hotel mirrors, Megans broken pottery, empty frames from car boot sales. By night Alice cut glass behind the abandoned Whitby factory, learning to sand edges with grit paper and a hair dryer. Megan fired her ceramic puzzle pieces so they would lock together.
One midnight Graham barged in. I hear youre building something weird at the station. Stealing my mirrors now?
The ones I broke? Ive already paid, Alice thrust out receipts; the past months shed survived on instant noodles while sending advance payments to the restorer who pieced together the Venetian tapestry frame bit by bit.
Without my brand youre invisible. Want to be an artist? Fine, but after the theft trial youll be a memequeen.
Try me. Judges love a good spectacle, she retorted.
Opening night arrived. The deserted station glowed with ultraviolet light. A line of people snaked along the tracks, each handed audio guides. Alice slipped her hands into her pockets, palms trembling.
Breathe steady, captain, Megan whispered, clapping her shoulder.
Inside, the mirror maze smelled of fresh dust and turpentine. Visitors stepped carefully, aware a reflection could bite. Words flickered on the walls pale moth, grey mouse, sevenyear debtor. Alice had recorded those shouts in a hidden recorder when Graham roared in the basement.
At the centre of the mask lay a bare circle of white light. A viewer emerging from the tunnel of insults saw themselves whole no cracks, no captions. The music faded into silence.
Applause crept in slowly, as if people were relearning how to clap. From the crowd James called out, Author, step forward.
Alice rose onto the platform. Light fell on her face, tiny mirror shards on her denim jacket scattering a rainbow.
Then Graham burst in. All those shards belong to me! She stole the project!
James, microphone in hand, asked, Mr?
Graham Hartley! GlassWorks Gallery!
Do you confirm those words are yours? he pointed to the walls where the fragmentphrases ran.
Graham blinked. Its a montage! Defamation!
The hall laughed. Someone shouted, Welcome to your own reflection! Cameras flashed, a galleryowners face turning beetred. Two reporters pounced for comment; the word abuse trended online.
A month later Alice signed a contract with the National Museum of Modern
