Bealtaine at Granreigh

A collaboration with Helle Helsner.

It’s May 1st, a day I find really special. In May 2022 I visited Helle Helsner at her home to watch her cast bronze. I wrote about the day shortly afterwards, and brought my camera to photograph the process, later Helle drew into the photographs digitally.

It’s a smooth raspy sound, the sound of the furnace. The gas nozzle is casually wedged between some red bricks. Helle managed to find some matches that weren’t damp to light it. Tiny matches and bare hands have performed this task innumerable times.

I am instructed to use the red mitt to pull the moulds out from the kitchen oven while Helle fetches a wooden spoon. Then out to the shed again where the furnace is, to nestle the moulds into the bucket with sand. It’s a drippy day, one where the rain hangs and clings to your fibres, one where the moss on Helle’s stone wall looks magnificent. The wall hosts a collection of matter; it is a merging of the human and other exquisitely vibrating within and on top of the negative spaces of the wall.

Hovering over the blue green flame is a customary practice where the properties of the bronze are communally discussed. On this occasion we appreciate its fudge like appearance and make satisfactory gestures. I step outside again to sip my now cold coffee from a spotty mug and listen to the rain patter, densely dropping from sycamore leaf to sycamore leaf. The smooth rasp of the furnace is periphery sound.

The sound retracts itself into a silence that says “don’t fucking move”.  The crucible is the colour of the centre of suns, it is the colour of life and death churning and fluxing in chaotic unison. Helle gently scoops the slag out from the top of the crucible with the wooden spoon. Using some long tongs she grasps the crucible then makes for the moulds meandering purposefully in milliseconds. She then delicately hovers over each mould titling the crucible as they fill with distinct glug sounds. The silence is filled as the liquid flows and rests.

Outside we sip hibiscus kefir and toast to Bealtaine. I knock my glass and swear as it spills out over the filthy work table. The particular smell of bronze as it settles encased in a horse manure mix heats the inside of our nostrils. We discuss space, time and homesteading as Helle prepares for the next pour. She wipes the sweat from her face, redoes her ponytail and fits her visor.

Inside Helle is striking matches again. “There will be a bang, come on bang bang” she says as the nozzle hisses awaiting its transition to flame.