When I think of copper, I hear sounds of hammers rhythmically shaping pots and pans and samovars by the hands of the coppersmiths in the dimly lit back alley souks of my town; I can picture the dull reflection of the sun on the jugs and vases as they turned in their hands, indented designs appearing like cuneiform poems on the red surface; I can see young women adorning themselves with thin copper coin belts getting ready for a wedding dance.

Now copper tells me of a man who once intoned, “Four score and seven years ago….”; it tells me of the tinkling of pennies dropped into the tip jar at Dunkin Donuts when no one wants to carry the tiny coins in their purse. But copper has mostly become cladding and counterflashing skirts in my imagination… and a giant copper clad lady near Ellis Island.

View of a copper facade brought to you by Shukri Sindi.