The glass glows a furious orange as Robert Comploj lifts it from the furnace, turning the molten sphere with the casual authority of someone who has long befriended fire. Then he hands me the blowpipe. I take it gingerly, half thrilled, half terrified, as I hold the cooler end on the stick to which the caramelly sphere is stuck. Under his gentle instructions, I roll the living orb across a metal slab, coax it into shape and blow. For a fleeting moment, I feel like a Greek god conjuring the sun. We pinch the rim open, cool it with a hiss of water, and the piece snaps cleanly from the pipe.
We’re in Studio Comploj, a small studio that has found patronage in museums and mansions across the world. It is tucked into a hushed Viennese lane and houses a pocket-sized garden that rustles with an autumn breeze. Inside, sculptures shimmer in impossible tones—metallic blues, petal pinks, molten silvers and golds—reflecting off the gallery’s glass facade. This is not the Vienna I remembered.
