Glass

Some pieces arrive alone. A single vase from a workshop that left no mark, a bottle whose origin is a guess, a form that belongs to no school and answers to no country. They are not enough to make a category of their own, and they lose something when forced into one that almost fits.

This is where they live. Blown, pressed, cut and cased glass gathered by eye rather than by origin, held together by nothing except the material and the fact that each one earned its place. Read together they show what glass can do when nobody is watching the label.