Kfar Nabrakh Glassblowing | نفخ زجاج كفر نبرخ
"She blows traditional glass in the old way near Saida. He's the art collector who believes Lebanese glass rivals Murano. Between fire and breath, they shape something brilliant. 'Inti el zijaj el safi' (أنتِ الزجاج الصافي)."
Kfar Nabrakh Glassblowing
نفخ زجاج كفر نبرخ
Glass holds breath forever.
My breath, blown into molten sand, frozen in beautiful forms. I've been a glassblower for thirty years, one of the last.
Then the collector arrives, seeing worth in what others forget.
I'm Karma.
Fifty-two, glassblower, body reddened by furnace heat. My lungs have given life to thousands of vessels.
Philippe Dagher collects what time threatens to erase.
"Your technique is Phoenician."
"It's practical."
"It's ancient. This method predates Venice by two thousand years."
"Venice gets the credit."
"That's what I'm trying to change."
He's fifty-five.
Lebanese collector, museums worldwide, passionate about documenting origins. His enthusiasm is contagious.
"Will you let me film you working?"
"Why?"
"Because this art dies without record."
He films everything.
My technique, my tools, my breath becoming glass. The attention is uncomfortable and flattering.
"You're beautiful when you work."
"I'm sweating—"
"You're creating. Same thing."
Weeks become months.
His collection grows with my pieces. Something else grows between furnace and collector.
"Philippe—"
"I know it's unprofessional—"
"Everything we do breaks convention. Why stop now?"
"Karma—" He sets down his camera. "Inti el zijaj el safi." You're the clear glass.
"I'm ancient—"
"You're priceless. Like everything here."
The kiss happens by the furnace.
Heat surrounding us, glass cooling nearby. His mouth on mine is molten.
"Is this wise?"
"Wisdom never made beautiful glass. Passion did."
We make love in my workshop.
Among finished pieces that hold my breath. He lays me on cooling stones.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "You're—"
"Overheated. Work-worn—"
"Brilliant. The word is brilliant."
He worships me like collector worships art.
Every curve appraised. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Philippe—"
"Let me collect all of you."
His tongue between my thighs.
I grip cooling tools, crying out near the furnace. Pleasure like molten glass—transforming.
"Ya Allah—"
"Perfect. You're perfect."
When he enters me, I feel shaped.
We move together near the heat—his body and mine, creating together.
"Aktar—"
"Oui—"
The climax is finished piece.
We cry out together—breath captured, form completed. Then we lie among glass, cooling.
Two years later
My work is in museums.
"Lebanese Glass: 3000 Years"—Philippe's exhibition. My name finally credited.
"Worth the collection?" I ask.
"I found the best piece of all." He kisses me. "You."
Alhamdulillah.
For glass that holds breath.
For collectors who honor.
For glassblowers who become treasured.
The End.