Two stories with FIER

Around 1994, we were taking a trip in the country. In our group was Andi Rath, a nice, kind and more civilized young Austrian than the rest of us. I marveled that he was accompanying us on a trip with no pretensions to comfort. For I, their guide, was interested in the forgotten countryside and the less beaten track. At one point in a country market we see two gypsies sitting by the side of the road, sitting turkishly, on a small anvil they were beating metal with a small anvil, making rings. The girls bought the goods on the spot. Andi couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight; fascinated, he took notes, asked questions in English, without getting an answer. We lost him that day. In the evening, there were excuses and explanations: Mr. Rath, Andi's father, had given his son a two-year mission: to learn everything there was to know about metal techniques, seeing the world and, why not, Romania. For Andreas Rath (22) was to take over the family business, which was no more and no less than Lobmeyr, the company with a nearly 200-year history of working metal and glass to make chandeliers in the world's most prestigious places.

Well, Andi told us, these gypsies who work metal so cleverly and economically can be found very rarely. They are on the list of mandatory confrontations with the craft that my father showed me. He knows by hearsay the skill and efficiency of these craftsmen and considers them a pinnacle of metalworking worthy of following. It was only then that I realized that Andi would return to Kertnerstrasse, to the Lobmeyr shop in Vienna, a little better prepared to run his business, for he understood the intricacies and subtleties of this craft with which he would enrich the extraordinary workshops he would be taking care of in the future.

In the 2000s, returning by detoured roads from Petre P. Carp's Țibăneștii, I came across the village of Toflea, in the county of Galati. I had learned that blacksmithing was a great honor there and that, in addition to a very diversified production of tools that they made, they also had the gift of the trade, reaching all over the country, but also many places in Europe; that during Ceausescu's time they used to steal steel from the nearby Galați Combine, which was their source of raw material; I had heard that they could make handmade firearms to order; that prestigious sculptors and ebeniers still use chisels made by them from good quality steel. Well, I decided to buy my chisels and was immediately invited into a large house, the kind of palace already known, with many terraces and balustrades with balusters. I was subjected to a ritual: in the "oval parlor" in the center of the palace, a table was set up with coffee and then, on another small table, several chisel sets. Each set contained a complete set of 60 chisels of different shapes, all dipped in fine oil and wrapped in a cotton cover. Next to it, for product confirmation, was the German catalog for specialists, with the same chisels and their technical data sheets. Intimidated, I bought two sets and asked to see the workshop where the marvelous objects were made. I was invited to the back of the palace and, instead of a workshop, I saw a man sitting turgidly outside on the grass with an anvil, hammer, a tiny forge and a few other objects around him. The man would turn left and right, then turn again to pick up some tool. His whole field of work was circular, all around him, within easy reach, and measured about 270 degrees in a strip about 50 inches wide. There, without even once getting to his feet and without any helpers, he made those chiseling jewels. It all seemed like a trick. I couldn't believe it, but once again I was convinced of the art of iron in action.

A performing art

Blacksmithing is more of a performing art than any other craft. I found this out every time I had to deal with blacksmiths: in Timisoara, when I was working with them on the lighting consoles for the historic part of the city, in Bogdan Zaharia's workshops at the Malaxa factory in Bucharest or at the Coubertin Foundation in France. They work as a team, in a rapid succession of opportunities, wisely balanced, pushed to make quick decisions, always imposed by the temperature and color of the metal, by the strength and intelligence of the arm. Once finished, the finished object carries within it all the memory accumulated during the making process. This is why the forged object often remains alive and extraordinarily intelligent historically. In fact, the work of the forge quickly finds its actors and spectators; so the forge at Țibănești was conceived as a real stage. The spectators sit in a hall, and through the "stage portal" and the showcase they observe the birth of the form and the ballet around it. There is fire, sparks, smoke, smell, movement, rhythm. There is, in addition, the preparatory creativity, the creativity of the design for the unborn object. In this way, without any preconceptions, you can suddenly wake up in the contemporary world. Doing what has to be done and sharing success with the person next to you.

This craft has an infinite number of new possibilities of expression and, contrary to many people's opinions, it is not exhausted, provided that the various professions - blacksmith, designer, architect, chemist, economist, etc. - meet side by side. We often look at the metal objects made by our grandparents and great-grandparents without knowing what they are called and what they were made for; a matter of civilization, but also of culture.