The cluster, hung. Hand-blown glass poured into a raw plate, on a semi-rigid cloth cord that takes whatever set you give it.

The first object, not a light. A cast-glass vessel — smoke gathered at the lip, thinning to a clear crystalline foot.

The cluster, settled. It sits where you put it and holds the line you give the cord.

The busiest light we make — every spine and split in the mould reads as a highlight when it is lit.

Most of the casting happens after ten. The bark chars, the room smells like a beach fire, and when it fades the piece is on its own.

Standing narrow and true, drawn up from a long run of fir bark. The opening at the top isn't cut — it's where the glass was gathered and let go.

The round wall piece, cast in the densest bark we keep — knots and branches that force the glass to gather and pool.

The longest piece in the line, cast from a strip of bark that ran the length of the bench. It stands with a slight twist, so the light moves up it as you pass.

By boat, when the tide chart and the weather agree. Take the bark the tree already gave up, take photographs, take nothing else.

One afternoon with Natasha, the whole catalogue lit at once. Six frames, no favourites.

The wall piece. Cast in the shallowest plates we keep; the rim carries the light and the wall does the rest.