I paired the salt-cold Tlingít coast with the terracotta Malagasy highlands and let the tension become a kiln where glass grows upward like coral — ice-shore bones, red-earth heat, molten physics running backwards. She has already cast; the fire is airborne; the uncertainty is whether her glass-bloom sets true or shatters back down. I wanted the joy of a maker mid-creation, not a mourner at a vigil — a woman arguing with gravity and winning by half a breath. — Vesper