Reassembled Me
Youve shattered my mirror, so youll owe me seven years, hissed Rory, the proprietor of the ArtGlassCo gallery, leaning in until I could smell his peppermint spray.
The broken Venetianstyle tapestry beneath my shoes chimed, its fragments catching the ceiling spotlights like a thousand tiny camera flashes. A gritty lump lodged in my throat: I could survive anything, but not the sound of glass cracking when the frames price equals a years earnings.
Ill pay, I exhaled.
Pay? With what? Your crooked window displays? From today you work for free until the debt is cleared.
Fifteen years earlier I, Emma, was a little girl in my grandfathers mirrormaking workshop, chasing reflections in scrap amalgam. Granddad fed me apple nougat and would say, Glass keeps the truth. It can be frightening to look, but if youre brave you understand yourself better. When he died, Mum sold the shop; I fled to London to study industrial design at the Royal College of Art, taking night shifts arranging shop windows. Thats where Rory first spotted metall, charming, promising a solo show for a few sketches.
In those early months he called me his spatial muse, kissed my hand after each successful project. Then hed critique gently: The highlights are too cold, add some warmth. Uncomfortable but useful. By spring his tone shifted: What texture can you claim when you cant even get the dimensions right? Penalties for spoiled materials followed. I whispered to myself, Hes strict because I can do better.
One June evening I was reconfiguring podiums for a new exhibition. At the entrance stood Rorys prized treasurea 17thcentury mirror with a giltleaf frame. A single centimetre misalignment and the trolley caught the edge. The crack sounded like a gunshot. A pause. Then shards rained down.
Do you realise that was a lot for the Royal Collection auction? Rory roared, drowning out the alarm.
Ill replace it, I muttered, scooping glass shards into a bucket, Ill find restorers
£250,000, if youre unaware. Or seven years of servitude. Choose.
In the gallerys basement, where WiFi never reached, I stamped out installations from his sketches: lenslamps, prismtables. Rory accepted the work, labeling every piece with only his name. At night Id sit at my laptop, stitching photos of the broken mirror into a digital collage, hunting for a line where cracks formed a face.
Once a week Clara, a potter from the neighbouring studio, dropped by.
Where have you vanished? Youre silent in the group chat.
Paying off a debt, I waved it off.
Clara eyed my hunched shoulders, calloused palms.
You know how they break glass to make stained windows? They heat it until it screams, then plunge it into ice.
Nice metaphor, I smiled.
Metaphor aside, Ive got a heap of broken ceramics in my loft. Take what you need. Piece by piece well make something new.
Autumn brought James Whitfield, curator of the travelling City of Light festival, to the town. He was scouting for artists for a night performance at the old railway station. He was shown Rorys portfolio; James nodded politely, but his gaze lingered on a basket of shattered glass in the corner.
Who handled this?
Waste, Rory snapped. Nobody cares.
I lifted my chin.
I do.
Outside, James approached me.
Show me the sketches you hide from everyone.
If I talk, Ill be sacked.
He handed me a card.
Then meet where the boss cant find us. Tomorrow eight, Platform 13.
Platform 13 was empty, only rusted clocks ticking under the roof. I opened a 3D model on my tablet: a gigantic cracked mask, its interior a labyrinth of mirrored walls. Projector beams danced across shards, spelling phrases like your hands are crooked, youre a debtor, youre nothing. The nearer you got to the centre, the more the words melted, until the surface was clean, reflecting only the viewers faces.
James fell silent, then whispered,
This isnt an installation. Its a personal revolution, 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, Claras broken pottery, empty frames from car boot sales. Nights I cut glass at the abandoned factory, learning to sand edges with grit paper and a hairdryer. Clara fired her ceramic puzzle pieces so they would hold together.
One midnight Rory barged in.
I hear youre building something at the station. Stealing my mirrors?
The ones I broke? Ive already paid, I handed him receipts: Id been living on instant noodles, sending every advance to the restorers who patched the Venetianstyle tapestry piece by piece.
No one knows you without my brand. Want to be an artist? Fine, but after a theft trial youll be a memestar.
Try me. Judges love a spectacle.
Opening night: the derelict station bathed in ultraviolet light. A line of people snaked along the rails, each handed audio guides. My hands trembled in my pockets.
Breathe steady, captain, Clara whispered, patting my shoulder.
Inside, the mirror maze smelled of fresh dust and turpentine. Visitors stepped cautiously, aware a reflection could bite. Words flickered on the walls: pale moth, grey mouse, sevenyear debtor. I had recorded those shouts when Rory roared in the basement.
At the centre of the mask a bare white spot of light awaited. Those who emerged from the tunnel of insults saw themselves wholeno cracks, no captions. Silence replaced the music.
Applause arrived slowly, as if people were relearning how to clap. From the crowd James stepped forward.
Author, reveal yourself.
I rose onto the platform. Light fell on my face, tiny mirrored scales on my denim jacket scattering a rainbow.
Suddenly Rory burst in.
All shards belong to me! She stole the project!
James held a microphone.
Sir
Rory Corwin! ArtGlassCo!
Do you confirm these words are yours? James gestured to the walls where the fractured phrases ran.
Rory blinked.
Its a montage! Libel!
The room laughed. Someone shouted, Welcome to your own reflection! Cameras flashed on the flustered gallerist. Two reporters rushed for comment; the word abuse spread across social feeds.
A month later I signed a contract with the Contemporary Art Museum: Portrait in Shards became a touring exhibition. Clara opened a studio called The Glue and began running ceramic workshops for teenagers with special needs.
One afternoon, after seeing the kids board a bus, I stepped outside the museum. Autumn sun glinted off the glass doors. James approached with two lattes.
Rory told the press hes on a creative sabbatical.
Let him chase his own reflection
