By Hand, Alone
The maker, the wood, the time.
I grew up climbing cherry trees and apple trees, hiding in their branches, feeling the bark rough against my palms. The garden was my whole world. I knew every tree by heart.
Then came fifteen years in cities. Glass and concrete. Screens and schedules. Somewhere along the way, I forgot how it felt to touch something real.
One day I held a piece of oak in my hands and something shifted. The grain beneath my fingers. The weight of it. The quiet presence of something that had grown for a hundred years.
I make things from wood now. Not collections. Not seasons. One piece at a time, when the time and the wood are right. The grain dictates the form as much as the form dictates the grain.
