They seem to be multiplying; ice sculptures that is. This year they’re in squares, in front of shopping malls and interesting roadside locations. And I’m left wondering whether this is the latest craze.

A large truck, stacked with giant ice cubes hewed from some monstrous freezer, arrives at the edge of the car park. With the aid of a crane and a dozen men the glassy blocks are manhandled to the ground. By dints of heaving and shoving they’re pushed into their allotted place, while the sculptor, a man in his early thirties, adjusts his safety glasses and bobble hat. Nailing his flimsy template to one of the icy rocks the sculptor removes a chisel from his tool box and traces the image onto the cube.  

Satisfied he’s captured the likeness sufficiently, he fuels up his chainsaw and, pulling the throttle trigger, lets a billow of blue smoke escape as the saw spits into life. Revving the engine for a minute or more the sculptor carves away great chunks as he discards the excess. Multiple cuts later the chainsaw is silenced. The ice is no longer a neat, clean-cut block but an indistinguishable blob that leaves me scratching my head and asking, is this man really a sculptor?

Stamping my feet I feel torn, I really should get on with my shopping but, like the crowd who are gathering, I’m fascinated and can’t tear myself away.

Discarding his gloves the sculptor takes out an angle grinder and lets it run over the image. Up and down, backwards and forwards he moves until the image is smoother but still barely recognisable. He returns again to his tool box and, rooting though a pile of tools, finally selects a mallet and a small chisel.

Gently tapping the steel hoop of his chisel he guides the cutting edge along the contours of the ice. He works slowly, a few taps here a few taps there, before stepping back to assess his progress. I think the image of a fish is emerging although it doesn’t look very fluid and smooth. Finally the sculptor lights a blow torch and lets the pencil tip flame glide quickly over the image, melting the imperfections and bringing a glossy polish to his work.

The sun, slung low in the sky, shines with that white light that comes in the winter. Numbed with cold my feet are heavy and I decide to abandon the shopping and return to the car. There’ll always be another day to shop but watching a man create something from nothing, from conception to completion, is an opportunity I rarely get. Walking on the compacted snow I’m reminded of the work God set himself to do in his creation, in his church and in my life. Forming, cutting, polishing, painful work and yet work that bears the image of its creator and hopefully, reflects his glory.