How Simone Fattal became enchanted by the skills of glassblowers in Syria

In the 1970s, when I was spending a lot of time in Syria, I met a master glassblower called Abu Nazir at a commercial fair in Damascus. He became a very good friend and I would visit him and his family at home, as well as his shop and studio. Abu Nazir was the only glassblower in the area, as well as weavers, metalworkers and jewellery makers, and he had a kiln he'd made himself out of traditional such as straw and clay. I would get there at 6am on Saturdays, we'd have breakfast together, and then I'd watch him work until noon.

I acquired quite a few of his pieces, including vase, jugs, lamps and glasses. They are classical in style, and extremely fragile and transparent. Sometimes calligraphers would write on them, and many were decorated in gold.

As far as Abu Nazir knew, his family has been making glass for 200 years: glassblowing in Syria is a very old trade. It was an important industry until cheaply produced objects came from elsewhere, and work like this started to be called 'craft', as a pejorative description for something that was only for decoration. Abu Nazir used to tell me that his trade was doomed, because the younger generation was not continuing the practice. Soon after he died, his son, who he had been teaching, also died suddenly, so the family shop closed. Although there are some places in Damascus where this kind of glassblowing still happens, not many remain.

Once in an antique shop in Paris, I saw two vases that I was told were from Venice. Later Abu Nazir made exactly the same vase, which he said was a traditional Syrian shape. I have one of his light fixtures on my living room ceiling in my apartment in Beirut, with the same shape and medallions as a lamp I saw in a hotel in Venice. For me, that is proof that a lot of Venetian glassblowing started in Damascus, and that the traditions of Syria continue to live on, far beyond the country itself.