​​​BLOM

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Blom means “Flower” in Afrikaans

 

I built Blom by hand. Every piece. That was always my intention. To go old school. To go back to the beginning. To go back to the original nature of things, or as close to it as possible, and to work from there. Blom is an exercise in the old, an exploration of heritage, of forgotten skills and practice. Blom is a study of muscle and grit, of anvil and hammer, of fire and ash, applied to modern perception, modern sensibility, modern need. Two sets of expectations, colliding, within a forged sphere. Blom is old school.

 

The rings from which Blom are built were rolled cold. No heat or machine, just muscle and guile. The rings were forged in a coal fire, beaten flat and textured on the anvil, by hand, with a hammer. 115000 blows. The rings were joined with 6000 layered welds, applied internally, each polished twice, to create the velvet inner surface of Blom. 93 days of polishing. Every ring is unique, and impossible to replicate. Old school, and compulsion. A tool from the beginning, from my beginning. A tool forged in abandonment. 

 

Blom tested me physically. I bled often. I burnt often.

Hospital Visits - 4

Surgeries - 2

Lacerations (Unknown)

Burns (Unknown)

 

Blom tested me mentally. To the edge. The unending hammering, welding, polishing. Repeat. And repeat. And repeat. Days. Months. Years. 2.5 years. An exercise in futility. An exercise in endurance. Blom made me suffer. Right to the edge of breaking. This I didn’t expect. I knew the build would be tough, but this tough, I didn’t expect. Removing machines demands an elevated level of physical capacity. I expected this. I was prepared for this. But as the imperfection, the depth, the texture of the rings, were revealed, I realized that I wasn’t in any way ready for what lay ahead. The design redefined itself. 

 

There was no end, no answer. No clear line to aim at, despite my design, despite my plans. Throughout the build I followed the hammer. I followed the texture. For a year, I followed the imperfection. There was always more. How would this end? How would this stop? I never found those answers. Yet, throughout, I felt the need to go deeper. To test my practice, my capacity, my tolerance. To test the steel. To allow it to speak. To listen to its secrets, its stories. To parent the imperfection. Unconditional acceptance, I grew to love the imperfection. 

 

For now, Blom seems complete. 

 

Blom is rare. A balance of the industrial and organic, at times, as she spins, Blom seems not to belong here. By here, I mean on earth. She is other. From another place. Other worldly. Blom is an exercise in acceptance. In expectation. In imperfection. In boundaries. In texture. In madness. Blom taught me balance in the most brutal way. She was the hardest mistress. Hard as nails. Hard as forget steel, velvet to the touch. Blom taught me to bend, to breathe. Blom taught me to listen.

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I have walked alone for dusty miles, 

on lonely plains and dry dark hills. 

Vast and still, this cracked land,

my destined solitude?

 

But then a flash,

a frozen moment of light.

A moist breath on my neck

A splash in the dust, and then another. 

A storm of a girl, dancing in the sky. 

 

Alive,

a flower pushing through the dirt, reaching.

I bend. 

I breathe

I soar

My storm of a girl. 

At last, the rain has come!

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