My Story in Glass
My stained glass journey began nearly fifty years ago when my father first introduced me to the art form. As a child, I was captivated by its timeless beauty—the way colored glass could transform ordinary light into something extraordinary. There was something deeply meaningful about creating pieces that could outlive their maker, becoming instant heirlooms passed from one generation to the next.
That fascination never left me. Though life often carried me in other directions, stained glass remained a quiet thread woven throughout my story. The artistry, craftsmanship, and connection it created between people always felt like something worth preserving.
In 2024, after my father passed away, that thread became a calling.
What began as a way to honor his memory soon rekindled a passion I had carried since childhood. I returned to the workbench, surrounded once again by glass, patterns, solder, and the familiar rhythms of the craft he taught me. Piece by piece, I began creating a collection that transformed a lifelong hobby into a business—one I believe my father would have been proud to see.
Today, every window I create carries a piece of that legacy. Stained glass has become more than an art form for me; it is a bridge between generations. It keeps me connected to my father, inspires my creativity, and reminds me of the joy and wonder that first drew me to this craft so many years ago.
Village Stained Glass is dedicated to the memory of my father, George Barfield. My studio, affectionately named George’s Workshop, reflects his spirit in every corner. It is organized in much the same way he would have organized it—some might call it chaotic, but I prefer to think of it as a workshop where creativity always comes first.
The collection you see here represents both a beginning and a continuation. It tells the story of where my journey started and showcases the influence my father continues to have on my work today. Among these pieces is his very first stained glass window, created in December of 1979—a reminder that every artist's story begins with a single piece of glass and a spark of inspiration.
If you find yourself in Zionsville, I invite you to visit Village Stained Glass, tucked behind 85 East Cedar Street. I'd be honored to share the workshop, the stories, and the art that continues to connect a father and son through light, color, and craftsmanship.
— Geoff Barfield
GEORGE’S FIRST COMMISSION
Every artist remembers their first commission. For my father, George, it came with an important lesson—and a story that became family legend.
As the tale has been told over the years, this stained glass window was the first piece George was ever commissioned to create in the mid-1970s. His client paid an impressive $50 in advance—a respectable sum for a budding stained glass artist—and eagerly awaited the finished work.
Perhaps a little too eagerly.
The client reportedly requested daily progress updates, anxious to see each new stage of the project unfold. While George was dedicated to his craft, he valued the freedom to create at his own pace. Eventually, he made a decision that was classic George: he refunded the entire $50, kept the window, and spared himself a lifetime of daily status reports.
What might have been a commissioned piece instead became a cherished part of our family.
For most of my childhood, this window hung proudly in our living room. It was more than decoration; it was simply part of home. Sunlight passing through its glass marked the changing seasons, and its familiar presence became woven into countless family memories.
In 2013, my father passed the window on to me. Since then, it has hung in our family living room, continuing its journey through another generation.
Today, when I look at this piece, I see more than stained glass. I see my father's craftsmanship, his quiet sense of humor, and his determination to create on his own terms. What began as a commission became a family heirloom—a reminder that some of the most meaningful works of art are the ones that never leave home.
GEOFF’S FIRST COMMISSION
There are moments when intention, opportunity, and place quietly align—and something meaningful begins.
In 2007, I set out to re-establish a stained glass studio in the basement of my home in Overland Park, Kansas. It was less a business decision and more a return to something familiar—a way to reconnect with a craft that had always lived just beneath the surface of daily life.
Around that same time, a colleague of mine expressed a deep interest in stained glass. He was in the process of building his first home in Texas and imagined that a custom window would be the perfect finishing touch—a piece of art designed not just for a space, but for a life being built.
Together, we designed his first commission.
The process was collaborative from the beginning—shaping the design to fit a specific architectural space, refining proportions, and imagining how light would move through it once installed. It was a conversation between structure and imagination, between his new home and my renewed studio practice.
To complete the piece, I framed the finished window in a salvaged architectural window—an element with its own history, repurposed to hold something new. In that layering of old and new, structure and art, the work found its final form.
What began as a return to a basement workshop became the quiet beginning of a studio reborn—and the first step in a new chapter of creating windows meant to live inside the stories of others.
HARIETT’S TULIPS
Every artist has a beginning, and for my family, it began with a simple panel of tulips crafted in glass.
Throughout their lives, my parents, George and Sara, embraced creativity wherever they found it. They were always exploring new artistic pursuits, enrolling in classes, and discovering the joy that comes from making something by hand. In 1979, my father attended a stained glass class in Indianapolis, unknowingly taking the first step on a path that would eventually inspire generations of our family.
This window—Harriett’s Tulips—was the very first stained glass piece he ever created.
When it was completed, my father gifted it as a Christmas present to Sara’s mother, Harriett. What began as a student project quickly became something much more meaningful: a handmade expression of love, destined to become a treasured family keepsake.
More than three decades later, in 2013, I discovered the piece tucked away in a dim corner of George and Sara’s basement. Dusty and forgotten by time, it seemed to glow the moment I found it, carrying with it memories, stories, and the unmistakable spirit of the man who made it.
To anyone else, it may simply be a stained glass window. To me, it is priceless.
It represents the moment my father first fell in love with the art form, the beginning of a creative legacy that would eventually find its way to me. Whenever I look at Harriett’s Tulips, I am reminded not only of where my own stained glass journey began, but also of the enduring power of handmade art to connect generations.
Long before there was a Village Stained Glass, there was this window—a humble collection of glass and solder that became the spark for everything that followed.
CODY TRANSOME
Some pieces begin as architecture, but end up becoming memory.
Our home in Overland Park, Kansas—on Cody Street—had two large, beautiful windows flanking the living room fireplace. They were meant to be filled with light, symmetry, and something meaningful. I envisioned creating a matched pair of stained glass transom windows to complete that space, echoing the rhythm of the room and the warmth of the hearth.
Like many good intentions shaped by a full life, I only ever completed one.
Four kids have a way of reshaping even the best-laid plans, and time in the workshop often yields to time with Family. Still, that single finished window held its place in our living room for eight years, quietly doing what stained glass does best—catching light, marking seasons, and becoming part of the home itself.
Its frame carries another layer of story. I built it from old shelving I had once made for our children’s photographs—small shelves that held growing faces, changing years, and the everyday chronology of family life. In that way, the piece is not just glass and solder, but a composite of past chapters held together in a single frame.
When we moved in 2013, the window moved with us.
Today, it hangs in our home in Westfield, Indiana—a familiar presence that bridges multiple houses, multiple seasons of life, and the steady passage of time. It remains both unfinished and complete in its own way: a reminder that art, like family, often evolves in ways we never fully plan, yet somehow feels exactly right when we look back at it.
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