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Favrile by Mark Doty
Glassmakers, at century's end, compounded metallic lusters
in reference to natural sheens (dragonfly and beetle wings,
marbled light on kerosene) and invented names as coolly lustrous
as their products' scarab-gleam: Quetzal, Aurene, Favrile.
Suggesting, respectively, the glaze of feathers,
that sun-shot fog of which halos are composed,
and -- what? What to make of Favrile, Tiffany's term
for his coppery-rose flushed with gold like the alchemized
atmosphere of sunbeams in a Flemish room? Faux Moorish,
fake Japanese, his lamps illumine chiefly themselves,
copying waterlilies' bronzy stems, wisteria or trout scales;
surfaces burnished like a tidal stream on which an excitation
of minnows boils and blooms, artifice made to show us
the lavish wardrobe of things, the world's glaze of appearances
worked into the thin and gleaming stuff of craft. A story:
at the puppet opera --where one man animated the entire cast
while another ghosted the voices, basso to coloratura -- Jimmy wept
at the world of tiny gestures, forgot, he said, these were puppets,
forgot these wire and plaster fabrications were actors at all,
since their pretense allowed the passions released to be--
well, operatic. It's too much, to be expected to believe;
art's a mercuried sheen in which we may discern, because it is surface,
clear or vague suggestions of our depths, Don't we need a word
for the luster of things which insist on the fact they're made,
which announce their maker's bravura? Favrile, I'd propose,
for the perfect lamp, too dim and strange to help us read.
For the kimono woven, dipped in dyes, unraveled and loomed again
that the pattern might take on a subtler shading For the sonnet's
blown-glass sateen, for bel canto, for Faberge
For everything which begins in limit (where else might our work
begin?) and ends in grace, or at least extravagance. For the silk sleeves
of the puppet queen, held at a ravishing angle over her puppet lover slain,
for her lush vowels mouthed by the plain man hunched behind the stage.
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