Forging a dialogue with metal: apprenticing as more-than-human collaboration

Abstract

Metals play an important role in capitalist, colonial and ecological violence across our planet. Yet, despite increased academic interest in relationality and the more-than-human, our relationships to metals and minerals remain overlooked in cultural geographies. Using a practice-based research approach, I learned coppersmithing to explore copper through a more-than-human lens. The musing vignettes in this article are an attempt to articulate the non-verbal, sensory and embodied encounters with the human and non-human entities involved in coppersmithing, especially vessel raising. What came out of these encounters was, firstly, an extended sense of collaboration that moves beyond the human to recognise materials as collaborators and teachers and, secondly, an expanded understanding of apprenticeship beyond striving for ‘mastery’. This approach to craft encourages geographers and craftspeople alike to practice their own relational understanding of earthly materials.

Duff, duff, ding . . . On a rainy afternoon in November in Bristol (UK), I pay attention to the way my hammer strikes the copper surface, the rhythmic sounds it makes, how willingly the material gives in and where it resists. These are vital clues in my communication with this metal that is on its way to become a tumbler. Each blow my hammer brings the copper in a bit, growing slowly from a flat sheet into the shape I envisioned, as long as I treat the material with care and give what it needs. It is a conversation in progress. This practice of listening to metal, of forging a dialogue with it, has become a key aspect of my journey into coppersmithing and academic inquiry.

In 2024, I started learning coppersmithing as part of my PhD research at the University of Bristol. After years of practising stained glass and some jewellery silversmithing, I felt called to explore metals in greater depth. This journey has not been one of merely technical apprenticeship. It has also been about rethinking the way we relate to materials (as researchers and/or practitioners) and to the world around us. As I started learning coppersmithing from established practitioner Charlotte Duckworth, I found that the apprenticeship of a new craft necessarily involves establishing new relationships through an embodied, sensory dialogue with an assemblage of vital entities, including metals, tools, and humans, and learning with and from them.

Based on written notes and (audio)visual materials gleaned during my ongoing practice-based field work, the following vignettes reflect on my coppersmithing practice and the embodied encounters with the human and non-human entities involved in this work (Figure 1). What came out of these encounters was, firstly, an extended sense of collaboration that moves beyond the human to recognise materials as collaborators and, secondly, an understanding of apprenticeship beyond striving for ‘mastery’. I am learning to understand apprenticing as a dialogic collaborative process. This work extends cultural and other geographers’ interest in the agency of nonorganic materials ¹ and their possible place within a more relational worldview, challenging the traditional dualisms of subject/object, living/non-living, and human/non-human. My reflections on copper smithing are situated in a time when many geographers are exploring relationality as antidote to extractivist anthropocentric ways of looking at the world. ²

Figure 1.

A collection of tools and copper objects in progress. In the picture you see my jug, which still needs a base, a test version of a leaf-shaped spoon handle alongside a steel anvil block with sandbag base and a rawhide mallet. Photo by Camille Straatman.

Bodies working bodies: memory and muscle

Whilst learning this new craft and getting to know my materials better, I was struck by the simultaneous sensitivity and toughness of metals. In many ways, copper and silver have a memory that show their recent past. Any imperfections – a scratch mark from the compass drawing tool, a dent from dropping it – are picked up by the metal’s surface. This is partly good because it means the material is malleable and your efforts will have an impact, but it also means that you can spend many frustrating hours planishing, sanding, or polishing away imperfections.

Some metals reveal their recent histories, while other histories remain obscured and untraceable once humans practice their ‘domestic geology’. ³ Once melted and re-cast, copper reveals none of its original shape. Once sanded and polished, a scratch is forever rendered invisible. Once smelted, the rocks that the copper minerals were embedded in will forever be confined to the slag, the waste product, whilst the pure shiny copper will be effectively indistinguishable from other copper. Metals can hide much of their past. Their mysteries are further compounded by our trade systems. None of the (web) shops I have encountered list metals’ geographical origins or their recycling past. Locations are rarely stated, unless the copper is branded as a unique geological specimen.

Whilst some histories are elusive, the immediate impacts of my practice on the material are not. Multiple bodies are at work and are being worked: the human bodies, the metal bodies, the tools’ bodies. My body is also keeping score of the work. Last week, the muscle between my thumb and index finger kept switching because the muscle was still releasing tension from the chasing and repoussé on my spoon handle (Figure 2). It was surprisingly hard work to hold the chasing tools steady whilst I hammered them, and my left hand is not used to such exercises. Similarly, holding your object whilst you raise is a strenuous job for a hand that usually sits idle. I often find myself needing to stretch and massage my hands. And last week, my back felt sore because of all the glass grinding and cutting. These crafts are physical exercises during which my whole body is learning.

Figure 2.

My copper caddy spoon with vine leaf handle, which served as a model for a silver version I made later. The handle has been shaped using chasing and repoussé techniques. The polished surface works almost like a mirror. Photo by Camille Straatman.

With coppersmithing I clearly notice the imprints on my body. I have practiced stained glass for years and my body no longer notices the work as intensely. Raising vessels out of copper sheets, however, is a more physically demanding and new activity. I am still an apprentice and my whole body is learning, whether it is the finesses of holding and using certain tools or simply building strength.

Sensory communication and apprenticeship

Throughout this learning process, I am getting to know copper. I am figuring out how to use all my senses to build a dialogue with the metal. Sound is especially important. It has been inspiring to see how well Charlotte knows her metals. She is attuned to subtle acoustic changes. She, for example, told me to wait for a certain ringing sound when we were knocking in the base of my tumbler. Or how I should listen for a hollow ‘duff duff’ when raising, rather than a sharp ‘ding ding’. With raising, you want to hit above a bit of air so that the metal has space to move, creating a softer hollow sound. If you hear a sharp ‘ding’, it means that you are hitting your metal directly onto the metal stake, which will stretch and flatten the metal instead of allowing the copper to move inwards. With planishing, however, you want that sharp ‘ding’ sound in order to flatten and smoothen the metal around the stake.

Sounds can also help tell you when the metal is becoming ‘tired’; when it has been worked so much that the mineral particle structure has become hardened. At that point, the metal will need annealing to again become malleable and avoid cracking. Metal becomes softer when you heat or ‘anneal’ it. The more you hammer and work a metal, the more rigid it becomes. This rigidity is an important sensation. Copper is a relatively tolerant material, but it can only be worked to a certain degree. Hammering the same spot time and time again might cause the metal to stretch, or worse, to become so rigid and ‘overworked’ that it cracks rather than bends. One should look out for the signs that your metal is hardening or stretching to make sure that you anneal it in time and avoid warping the shape. Touch is important (squeezing the metal or sensing how much impact your hammer blows are having) but so are sound and vision. They can illustrate the hardness of the metal.

I love watching the colours of copper change: the rainbow hues you can create with the torch, the pink and blue shades that emerge when annealing, the vibrant orangey red that you get when soldering, the deep blue black of a freshly annealed or soldered piece or the soft fleshy pink of copper straight from the pickle bath. It is like alchemy. It is part of a conversation. The colours become a way for the copper to tell me how much heat it still needs, and what the next steps can be. Under-annealing the metal increases the risk of cracks whilst over-annealing can irreversibly change the particle structure and make it less workable. Similarly, visual changes in texture allow me to trace my hammer blows in the raising process. This helps ensure even shaping and avoid overworking the metal.

Charlotte is more attuned to the embodied and spatial ‘feeling’ aspects of copper work. She can intuitively sense at what angle she needs to hold the tumbler over the stake to raise it in the right direction. Or how to shift the copper to smoothen a little dent or ridge. I spend much time experimenting with angles or figuring out where exactly the stake is located underneath my tumbler (Figure 3). Compared to my mentor, I am at the earlier stages of this journey. At the same time, I notice improvements as I begin to understand the materials, tools and techniques. My movements get more confident, the sounds are more positive, my body feels less sore. I notice when the metal tells me that it is time for annealing. Through repetition and practice, I am learning a new language, becoming more able to listen to and communicate with my metal and my tools.

Figure 3.

My tumbler in its near-finished state. The shiny reflective surface starkly contrasts the texture of the tumbler during the raising process. Photo by Camille Straatman.

Using my senses to attentively observe changes in the metal is also an active practice of care. It requires me to be observant to the needs of something or someone else and tending to them. This allows the metal to be seen as an active participant in our conversation.

Towards a relational understanding of earthly materials and apprenticing

I began exploring relational practices with metal because of the many ways in which rare earth minerals are involved in forms of planetary violence. Metals have long been integral to human life. For the past 5,000 years, they have shaped the stories of peoples and planet. ⁴ Whether we are talking about ‘conflict minerals’ or ‘the green transition’, metals are omnipresent in stories of destruction and colonialism but also in stories of hope and futuring.

Despite increasing interest in relationality and the more-than-human, earthly matters, especially metals and minerals, are somewhat overlooked in cultural geographies. We are quick to attend to the living bio (e.g. flora and fauna) while the geo is often less visible in geographical scholarship. Whatmore et al., ⁵ argue for the marriage of bios and geos to acknowledge the ‘livingness’ of the material world. Whatmore (and others) also advocate for embracing sensory, embodied research practices. ⁶ Agency of non-human earthly entities, including metals, must be recognised if we are to build more just and sustainable relationships with the world around us. Understanding the agency of earthly materials has been a key focus of my (embodied) work with metals.

Through my practice-as-research, I have come to understand that the apprenticeship of a craft is not merely about mastering a set of techniques. It is about building an ongoing sensory and collaborative relationship with materials and tools, learning to listen to materials’ needs and responding with care. The copper is not a passive object but an active participant; a vital collaborator, capable of teaching, responding and participating in a more-than-human dialogue and creation process. This approach to apprenticing also sees craft itself as a relational practice, made up of an assembly of human mentors, bodies, craft traditions and non-human tools and materials. These understandings challenge Cartesian dualisms and encourage geographers and craftspeople to practice more relational understandings of the material world.