I often find myself caught between two worlds — the practical demands of business and the soulful pull of art. While I respect the business side of what I do, my center of gravity has always been the making itself. Creating is not simply a task on my list; it is the rhythm of my days, the way I move through the world.
For me, the act of making jewelry is less about production and more about transformation. I begin with raw materials — a sheet of silver, a sprig of fern, a crescent of brass — and slowly coax them into form. The process is not rushed. It requires patience, listening, surrender. In those hours at the bench, time dissolves. There is only metal, fire, and my hands moving instinctively toward what they somehow already know.
Each impression I press into sterling silver is unique, a fleeting piece of the natural world preserved in metal. But it is also something more. It is the echo of my experience in that moment: the focus of my breath, the reverence I hold for the botanical in my hand, the spark of wonder when the impression reveals itself. Every piece I finish carries within it that memory — a small remnant of a spiritual encounter, now made tangible.
When I create, I feel tethered to those who came long before me, shaping adornments over open fire, forging beauty from necessity, and weaving meaning into what they wore. That lineage hums beneath my fingertips each time I strike the hammer or guide the saw. I am not simply making jewelry; I am continuing a human tradition as old as memory itself — one that connects us to place, to ritual, and to the quiet need to surround ourselves with beauty.
What I offer, then, is not mass-produced or impersonal. It is art. It is devotion. It is a piece of my own lived experience — the trace of my time at the bench, my dialogue with nature, my love of craft. When you hold one of my pieces, you are holding more than metal. You are holding the physical representation of that journey, that moment of spirit meeting form.
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