When I was six years old, I put my feet in a hotshop for the first time. I remember how it smelled of burnt newspaper and wood, the faint rumbling sounds from the glass ovens, the glass blowers that handled the 1100-degree glass mass, and shaped it into objects we often use in everyday life.


Since I accidentally dropped so many glasses at the dinner table at home, I assured my mother that she would be paid back, because I would really become a glassblower when I grew up.