Whenever I think of ice sculpting, the image of Johnny Depp as Edward Scissorhands, speedily carving an effigy of Winona Ryder, pops into my mind. It's a statue that can never last, for a love that can never be. Ice flakes fill the air and even though his heart is breaking, we can be sure that romance is not dead. There is something deliciously quixotic about ice and here I am, in a tucked-away industrial estate in Tooting, wondering if I'm going to create something equally amorous and legendary.
I doubt it. But I'm going to have a damn good crack.
Today, I'm in the hands of Duncan Hamilton, the "Ice King". He used to be a top flight chef but turned his hand to ice sculpting when it became fashionable again in the 1970s. Before there were fridges and electricity, blocks of ice were a common sight, delivered week in week out in Victorian London by a Swiss-Italian family, the head of which, Carlo Gatti, seemed to have the business of staying frosty sewn up. Ice for British consumption was imported from Boston, Massachusetts, but Gatti, who was always one for shaking things up, started buying from Norway instead. He didn't tell anyone, though, so ice was always called Boston Ice, even though it wasn't. He was quite the eccentric, and was determined to transport ice to India. This he managed, but not before his name became Cockney rhyming slang for batty.
I'm learning a lot about ice. I know that it used to be kept in ice houses and that you can still see one at the London Canal Museum on New Wharf Road near King's Cross. I know ice that is opaque in appearance has been allowed to sit still during the freezing process: the thick white sheen is created by bubbles that have formed in the water. Clear ice, the stuff that looks like glass, gets its appearance from the water being moved during freezing.
Look at me. I'm the Magnus Magnusson of ice facts. But let's get back to the sculpting.
Duncan has heaved a 100kg block of ice onto a work surface. He's slicing it into 10-inch thick squares with a chainsaw so that I and the other people here today on the Ice Masterclass can have a go at carving a shell.
"Can I have a go on the chainsaw?" I ask.
"No," says Duncan.
Our blocks are then rounded and Duncan shows us how to create the gouged fan effect of the inside of a shell. Once I've got the hang of it, it's incredibly satisfying. This is just a practice run to get us used to handling the tools. Any minute now, we're going to be given our own ice block, out of which we are expected to carve our very own masterpiece. The woman to my left is going to attempt a ship. The one to my right is, rather ambitiously, attempting a head. I've thought about this long and hard and I'm going to carve R2-D2. Because I love him as much as Edward Scissorhands loved Winona Ryder. It just feels right.
I have no experience in sculpting, unless you count a clay caterpillar I made once with my dad. It looked like a massive turd and was instantly relegated to the back of the garage where nobody would ever have to cast an eye on it again. I'm not holding out great hopes for my R2-D2 but somehow, with guidance from Duncan, I end up with a not-half-bad little ice robot. I stand back and stare at it. It's already beginning to melt. And it's breaking my heart a bit.
"You have to remember," says Duncan, in an attempt to comfort me, "that the lack of permanence is what's attractive. Being an artist is about the process. Once a piece is finished, it's time to move on."
"Is it time to move on to letting me have a go on the chainsaw?" I ask, hopefully.
No chance. Oh well.
• Hamilton Ice Sculptors (020-8944 9787, icesculpture.co.uk) offers individual or group ice masterclasses. A three-hour class like Emma's is £114. 90-minute sessions for groups cost from £54 depending on numbers. Duncan and his team are also available for school visits or corporate events
