When I emerged, the studio was empty. Everyone presumably retired to the plastic marquee for dinner, leaving behind a woeful little army of clay humanoid stalagmites. At the foot of the gantry, repelled by the clinking of glassware and laughter, I slipped back towards the back of the workshop, where the foundry workers stood around with beers cracked, lighting smokes beside the cooling furnace.

"You okay?" one of them asked. "That looked ... a bit rough."

"I could do with one of those."

He offered the packet, a light. "Saw some real masterpieces up there," he added, brows raised.

They found me a chair [...] Most were artists themselves, working partly for access to the foundry and materials [...]