Today has dawned beneath the gray of heavy, low-hanging clouds. Normally, these would be the kind to bring rain, but the forecast predicts extreme winds of the sort that will blow the clouds out beyond the peaks.
They will also, if the meteorologists are to be believed, usher in rain and snow from the west, but we have long since learned the virtues of not relying on the forecast.
Yesterday, intermittent clouds and wind notwithstanding, the soil here began to dry out beneath the warming sun. There is still plenty of mud, of course, and likely to be more again soon, but for the moment, we are afforded a glimpse of the spring and summer soils: earth aflame with rich reds and golds, shimmering here and there with mica and quartzite. In some places, there are still traces of metals, precious and otherwise, scattered here and there: everything from lead and zinc and molybdenum to copper, silver, even gold.
Today’s featured throwback work has its own roots in the latter two metals: a silver band embracing the fiery byproduct of the gold refining process. It’s a work from some eight or ten years ago, a ring wrought in brushed and textured sterling silver holding a bold oval cabochon of rosarita, or gold slag.
I’ve written about this “gemstone” with the feminine name here before, as part of our Jewels and Gems series of four years ago. As I traced its history and identity then, in a post subtitled When Impurity is Pure Beauty:
Rosarita.
. . .
It’s a name that one might expect to have a specific etymology, or at least a literal English translation, but the fact of the matter is, it’s probably mostly a compound name. In Spanish, rosa of course translates to “rose,” which has long doubled as both flower type and feminine proper name.
But rita is a bit different. Rita is a proper name in and of itself, but not a word in Spanish per se. Rito, what would seem to be the masculine form, is an ordinary noun, one that translates to “rite.” But there is, to my knowledge, no feminine version of the noun. In Spanish, of course, -ita is often a diminutive suffix, one applied to nouns and proper names alike to show youth, small stature, or status as someone dear. But to turn the proper name Rosa diminutive, you would get Rosita (“Little Rose”), dropping the ending vowel and replacing it with the suffix.
Now, there is a word that resembles both, and would seem to combine the various meanings in a somewhat metaphorical manner: rosario. It, too, is both noun and proper name, and although it is expressed in the normally-masculine form, with the -o ending, it is used as a first name in some cultures for both boys and girls. As a noun, it translates to “rosary.”
Ah.
Does the symbolism begin to fall into a place a bit?
Curious, I decided to look up the etymology of the name Rosarita, if any. It turns out that at least some folks had the same thought: that it stems from rosario, a female diminutive form. It doesn’t take much of a leap, really — a rosary is a set of beads that are sometimes stylized, and that could be said to resemble rose petals or even the whole flower, and they are most definitely used in a set of rites. They are also used in a set of rites whose iconography depends heavily on a particular set of images involving blood as one of the symbols of salvation. More about that in a moment.
. . .
So why the lengthy language-lesson lead-in?
Because names don’t transpire, magically, in a vacuum. They are deliberately bestowed within a cultural context — perhaps sub- or even entirely unconsciously, yes, but cultural and social frameworks dictate and shape those choices.
And for a substance that is born under the pressures of intense and purifying heat, one ostensibly named for its location in a province named for a Catholic saint, I think it’s no accident that the name was chosen for a “jewel” the color of blood.
So what, exactly, is this mysterious material?
It’s very simple, really. It’s gold slag.
Yes, you read that correctly. It’s a byproduct of the gold refining process. This is what I meant by a natural substance that occurs as a result of human intervention and man-made processes. But “gold slag” doesn’t really have a very attractive ring to it; for me, the phrase conjures up (as I suspect it does for most people) images of scrap heaps, of waste products and dull leaden-looking clumps of impure metal. And, of course, it is impure, at least in its relationship to gold: It is literally midwifed into being by the smelting process that, under furnace-like temperatures, burns off the impurities in a given amount of gold; the impurities rise to the top and are filtered off, leaving the pure precious metal behind.
Are you seeing connections between blood and impurities and cleansing yet? It’s the old salvation story, inscribed in metal and “stone.”
. . .
In South America, there is a mining operation of the same name: Rosarita. It is in the San Juan Province of Argentina, in an area of the nation’s Northwest area where it abuts Chile in the bisecting border of the Andes Mountain Range. The mine is active today, although it appears that, in relation to some others in the area, it is perhaps not as productive, and certainly not as well known.
What it is known for is the quality of its gold slag, which, when cooled, hardens into a brilliant, blood-red stone-like substance, one that can be cut, cabbed, polished to a silken gloss, and used in high-end jewelry and gemwork just like any other gemstone.
Since the ban on diving for coral went into effect, the classic deep-red Mediterranean coral traditional to Indigenous jewelry of this region has become increasingly inaccessible — not merely in terms of its now-astronomical cost, but also the fact that there is simply very little of the real thing left on the market. And yet, these brilliant clear reds, the ones termed “scarlet” or “crimson,” are an integral element of the art of this area, and of its other traditions, too. And so, in recent years, a great many Native artists have turned to rosarita as a color substitute for the coral that is no longer available (or at least accessible). Wings still has some of the old coral in his inventory, but he has long been fond of the brilliant clarity of rosarita’s red, and has used it for many years on an occasional basis; one of his signature series, The Firebird Collection, was built around three spectacular focal cabs.
This piece, of course, predates that collection by a half-dozen years or more. It was one of two such rings in recent memory — that is to say, rings that featured a rosarita focal stone. They were created some distance apart in time, but both featured simple oval cabs set into similarly spare bands. It was the bands that made each one unique. This one was perhaps my favorite of the two, featuring a wider band, proportionally sized to the stone itself, with a little texture and a Florentine finish. In this instance, I believe the design began with the “stone,” but as always, the execution began with the band.
This one was crafted of sterling silver of a not-insubstantial gauge: heavy enough to be solid and sturdy, and to hold the visual weight of stone and setting elegantly; not so heavy as to weigh down the wearer’s finger. It was, if memory serves, about 3/8 of an inch across, and sized to smaller fingers like my own. Wings cut it to width and length out of sheet silver, then filed the edges silky smooth. He then shaped it two way around a mandrel. First, he placed it parallel to the mandrel’s own length and gently curved the edges inward, to give the band a bit of raised appearance on its surface; this provides depth and an elegant smoothness. Then, he turned it perpendicular to the mandrel, as is more usually done, and carefully shaped the silver rectangle into a hoop — the band of a ring.
Once the band’s shape was finalized, he created, by hand, a plain, low-profile bezel and setting to hold the cabochon. This particular cab was fairly highly domed, but its depth stretched fairly consistently to the edges of the stone, so a saw-toothed or scalloped bezel was not needed to hold it securely. In this instance, Wings simply cut the silver to size, freehand, filed and buffed the edges perfectly smooth, and soldered it around the very edge of a sterling silver back. This he in turn soldered to the top of the band itself.
Next, he oxidized the bezel and the band, paying particular attention to the joins between the two. Then, he buffed it all to a soft Florentine finish, silken around the bezel, ever so slightly textured on the band itself. Then it was time to set the stone. In a plain bezel, only a little space is required for placement (as opposed to serrated or scalloped bezels, which require moving the scallops or points upward and outward to accommodate the placing of the cabochon). Once in place, he then gently pressed the sides of the bezel inward against the stone. All that remained was to bless it and put it into inventory. If memory serves, this one sold in a matter of mere weeks from its creation.
This particular photo, while perhaps not especially well-suited to showing off the full shape and style of the ring, was nevertheless very apt in spirit: atop old, aged, tightly bound leather against a far more ancient adobe earthen wall. The handle on which it sat seemed, in its own way, to have been through the fire; the sunlight adobe wall was, indeed, its own historical version of earth aflame, baked bricks and red-earth plaster shimmering with mica.
It was a perfect setting for a jewel of almost perfect hardened fire. Gold may be precious, especially once refined, but what it casts off as “impurity” possesses its own pure and fiery beauty.
~ Aji
All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2019; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.
