More on Murano.

There are few times when I feel an instant emotional connection to something—a material item… a thing.

I had one of those moments when I returned from Murano, Italy.

The trip positively changed my life. As I've mentioned before, it made me feel absolutely connected to creativity again, for the first time in years. I suddenly felt more in touch with who I am. I felt open. I knew who I was again, at the core of my being, and I was unafraid to let everyone see. I felt at home on a torch, wielding molten blobs of glass, when I’d only sat at a torch for a few short hours prior.

I’ve had similar connections before, no doubt. I’ve been a musician all my life—a pianist, primarily, and all of my emotional connection with music fed my ability to communicate through ivory keys and brass pedals.

I lost that ability sometime in college, when the idea of being graded for my emotional outlet caused me to burn out and walk away from playing.

Ever since those days, I have wandered rather aimlessly through a sea of various creative endeavors—writing poetry or essays, and designing jewelry to name a couple—but most of those endeavors have left me feeling somewhat empty or uninspired at one point or another. The ultimate connection between the core of my being and a tangible means of expression was lost upon me.

I lived in Boston for a couple of years, and I once set foot into a piano store with a Bosendorfer front and center. It was the first time I’d ever seen one, let alone been encouraged to touch it. If you’re unfamiliar with them—it’s basically the Ferrari of pianos.

When I saw that Bosendorfer—my heart swelled in my chest and I immediately froze with remembrance of my talent and ability that I’d so willingly tossed away. I couldn’t even touch the Bosendorfer. Instead, I settled upon an electric piano upstairs that had headphones already attached—so my noodling wouldn’t have to be heard by anyone or anything but my aching heart.

I can quickly attach to a piano on a deeply emotional level. But that’s rare with other things.

Which is why I was so stricken when I returned from Italy. I realized that the emotional connection I have to expression has finally changed forms. I no longer craved moments alone to play my homely upright in a rare moment of silent desperation. Oh, no.

I craved the torch, the focused fire, the molten glass oozing its way into round around a mandrel. I craved the folding of color upon color, the swirling of patterns and the plunging of dots and the sparkle of dichroic and gold and silver and palladium. I suddenly wanted to pour my emotions out in the form of glass beads.

So, imagine my surprise when I realize my own connection to glass, and what glass can mean to me.

And then, I saw the bead.

This bead, Murano Magic, made by Sarah Hornik—an homage to a glass sculpture on Murano island.

I felt the same way I felt when I saw that Bosendorfer for the first time in my life. My heart swelled in my chest, and I could feel the edges of my eyes crowding with liquid. I had to have that bead—for what it represents, for the punctuation of what I experienced, for the underlining and exclaiming of all that is Murano, Italy. I had to have that bead.

The timing was pretty terrible—my husband was unemployed, and I didn’t have any work to speak of, and of course—while in Italy, I’d spent a little too much money.

But I had to have that bead.

“It’s silly,” I thought. “It’s a hunk of glass,” I justified.

No good—I had to put a bid on it. Because I had to have that bead.

I lost the auction, but luckily I was able to acquire the bead some months later through a private sale. Lucky me!

It is, without question, a beautiful piece of art.

But it’s more than that. It represents our time in Murano. It expresses something I have, thus far, been unreasonably unable to articulate. It represents a shift in me—a willingness to rekindle my innermost ability of emotional expression. It’s a tangible totem marking my re-awakening.

Murano Magic, indeed.