Happy birthday, said the atmospheric river storm. I had scheduled a stained glass group workshop for my birthday party, on a day that turned out to be the single rainiest day of the year in Los Angeles. I felt the adult’s responsible logic—we’ll cancel or postpone if the flood risk gets too high—along with the awkward kid’s anxiety—what if no one shows up? But the route to Katabi Glassworks in Santa Monica remained drivable, and my dear friends pulled through. I’m very grateful for it, because it turned out to be an experience I’ll never forget.
The process actually began a week earlier, in my Traveler’s Notebook (in the back pages of my JIYU Monthly, to be exact). I wanted to prepare a concept well ahead of time, since 3D and hands-on crafts like sewing and sculpture are generally not my strong suit. “But you decided to make a scorpion??” my partner said. He was teasing, but he was right. The minute I sat down to draw a scorpion from photo reference, I realized my hubris: they’re damn complicated creatures—even in a medium I’m totally comfortable in! I attempted to simplify the scorpion form as much as possible within square and diamond frames, spreading a maze of sketches across three pages.
Ori Hamburg, the stained glass craftsman behind Katabi Glassworks, was kind enough to offer feedback at this stage. One very helpful limitation: try to keep the number of glass pieces between 6-8. Having that goal was clarifying, although I didn’t quite manage to reach it. The lowest I could go while still having it read as an abstract scorpion was 10-14 pieces. On the day of the workshop, I’d narrowed my design down to two variations. Ori scrutinized the graphite drawings closely. Finally, he pointed at the diamond: “I’d go with this. It looks manageable, if you work really hard.” I wavered. Wouldn’t “manageable”, in my amateur hands, simply become “wonky”? But in the end, I thought: f*** it. It’s my birthday. I’ll work hard and take the risk.
After drawing our final designs came selecting the glass. Tubs full of glass pieces were cataloged on a large industrial shelf, sorted by color. Ori carefully pulled down requested bins for us, as if at a library of light. Viewed on a light table, we could see each glass pieces’ true color and texture. There was a truly beautiful variety. Some were opaque, almost marble-like with a soft, dull glow. Others rippled with bumps, undulated with wavy ridges or winked at different angles, seemingly scored with fine geometric lines. Still others contained strings or swirls of other colors, as little lives are sometimes preserved in amber. I went with clear, light-lavender and red pieces to alternate in the background, with purple and blue-swirled pieces for the scorpion’s body and stinger.
Next came cutting the glass. There were several different cutting tools to try, but all of them require both strength and precision, applying proper, consistent pressure. If you do it right, you hear a sound like the scrape of ice skates as you score the glass, followed by a glassine staccato snap! when you break the intended shape out of the piece. I struggled with this part. Even with help, I ended up with many jagged, wobbly edges. Luckily, however, many of these could be filed down with the grinder. How forgiving!
Once the pieces were assembled, we wrapped their edges with a copper foil adhesive. Then, with an iron in one hand and the coil of solder itself in the other, we melted the solder over the copper, fusing the pieces together. This, too, required a strong and steady hand. But I loved this part; there was something so satisfying about seeing the glass hold together as intended at last, bound by fire and metal. My very favorite part of the process was melting the extra globs of solder off the edges of the piece. It reminds me of the satisfaction of peeling the tape off of the borders of a watercolor piece to reveal a clean edge, but with the extra joy of watching solder droplets spatter on the worktable, like liquid mercury (but not so lethal). Last came a wash of varnish, and for the final touch Ori stepped in once more to install the hook and chain that would make it possible to hang the piece.
Now, sitting at my desk, I look at the stained glass scorpion in its diamond, and on through it to the old tree outside my window. The glass ripples the branches, turns the leaves scarlet red and wisteria. I think about an idea I read recently: that fall is actually when a tree is strongest, because it’s not directing its energy towards trying to grow new leaves. Instead, its life force is concentrated in the trunk and roots, on surviving.
That’s what I’m going to do, too. I’m glad I tried something new, something just outside the edge of my comfort zone. I feel a deepened appreciation and awe for the craftsmanship that goes into every pane of a professionally made stained glass work. My piece’s uneven edges and inconsistent solder lines serve as a reminder that even in steadily darkening days–and for me personally, a season of loss and doubt–there is still so much left to learn, and try, and risk. There’s a reason I chose to make a scorpion, after all; it’s my star sign, and also a symbol of death, protection, control or power, and transformation. Weak and vulnerable as I am, I press my strength towards the earth, and do my best to follow the paths I drew on the fragile surface before me.
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Text and photos by: A.C. Esguerra
Where to find A.C. : IG @blueludebar
Read other stories by A.C. : Here
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