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People often ask me what a normal day at Copper Sphere Glassworks looks like. The honest answer is that no day is exactly the same, but I do have a rhythm. I thought it would be fun to walk you through one, partly because it is a peek behind the scenes, and partly because making is far less glamorous and far more wonderful than most people imagine.

Morning: Coffee, Copper and Planning

My day usually starts around six. I make coffee, feed (my studio companion and the unofficial CEO of this business), and sit at the kitchen table with my sketchbook. Morning light here in Alaska is one of my favourite things, so I try not to waste it. I review what I worked on the day before, look at what is in the kiln, and decide what needs cutting, foiling, or finishing today.

I also check messages from customers. I try to reply personally to every email, because most of my work is, and the small conversations are where the best ideas come from. Someone might mention a colour from their garden, or a window they grew up looking through, and that detail can change the whole direction of a piece.

Mid-Morning: Cutting Glass

Around eight I walk down to the studio. The first hour is usually I lay out my pattern on the workbench, choose the sheets I want, and start scoring. There is a particular sound a clean break makes that I cannot describe, but if you have ever cut glass you know it. It is satisfying in a way that is hard to find in many modern jobs.

I cut behind protective glasses and over a soft mat to catch the small chips. I always cut more pieces than I need, because not every break goes the way you plan. A small imperfection along an edge can ruin a curve, and there is no patching it. The piece either fits the way I want it to, or it goes into the scrap bin and waits for a mosaic.

Late Morning: Grinding and Fitting

After cutting comes grinding. My grinder is a small water-cooled machine that smooths every edge so the pieces fit snugly. It is loud and a little messy, but it is also where the shape of the final piece really comes into focus. I lay every cut piece into the pattern and check the fit one by one.

If two pieces have a gap wider than the foil can hide, I either grind them down or recut. I have learned over the years that at this stage saves hours of frustration later. A panel that is well fitted before foiling almost solders itself. A panel that is rushed at this stage fights you all the way to the end.

Lunch: Always at the Bench

I will admit it: I almost always eat lunch standing at the bench. It is a habit from my days. A sandwich and a hot drink, and I keep working. Copper usually sits nearby and judges me silently for not sharing the sandwich.

Afternoon: Foiling and Soldering

Afternoons are usually for and soldering. Foiling is quiet work and I like to put on a podcast or some music while I do it. Each piece of glass gets its edge wrapped in thin copper tape, pressed flat with a small wooden tool. There is no shortcut for this. You either do it well or it shows in the finished piece.

Soldering comes next. The soldering iron heats the lead-free solder, and I run a smooth bead along every seam. A good solder line should look almost like a pencil drawing, even and unbroken. A bad one looks bumpy and uneven and tells you the artist was tired or in a hurry. I have made both kinds of lines in my life, and I can tell you that the slow ones always pay off.

Evening: Patina, Cleaning and Photography

When a piece is fully soldered, I apply a to darken the solder lines. The patina reacts with the metal and turns the bright silver into a soft, antique black. After that, the piece gets a careful wash with mild soap to remove any flux, then a polish with a soft cloth.

If the natural light is still good, I photograph the finished piece in a north-facing window. If not, I leave it to be photographed first thing the next morning is the only honest way to show stained glass online. Studio lights can lie about colour. The sun does not.

Why I Love This Work

By the end of the day, my hands are usually a little stiff and the studio smells faintly of flux. Copper has moved to his evening spot near the heater. And I usually stand back, look at the day's work, and feel the kind of quiet satisfaction that comes from making something real with your hands.

This is not a fast business. A single panel can take days of focused work. But every piece carries a small part of an ordinary day in Alaska, and I love knowing that those days end up in homes all over the world. If you have ever wondered whether is worth the wait, I hope this gives you a sense of why I believe it is.

Thank you for reading, and thank you for supporting small studio work. Copper says hello.