What if a ring could remind you that you’re not alone? What if a bracelet quietly held a story about who you are, and where you’ve been?
I work across two practices that may seem quite different: I’m a jeweller and a community-based researcher and facilitator. One involves metal, stone, and form. The other centers on dialogue, learning, and collective insight. But at heart, both are about connection — to self, to others, and to place. One might leave you with something to wear. The other, with a new way of seeing the world.
Jewellery – Adornment Plus More
Adornment is an ancient tradition that satisfies a human desire, a longing. Some look for the full story, the intention that lies within the jewellery. Others are attracted to the curve of a line, the way the metal warms to the skin. That’s enough.
But for me, the work always lives within a larger conversation.
Take Celestial Compass, for example — a quiet piece about finding one’s way through space and time. It gestures toward charting a path: toward something, or maybe away. There’s no overt symbolism, no forced interpretation. The meaning is there, yes, but it’s softly held. The title hints, but doesn’t insist.
Much of my jewellery functions not as a statement, but as a possibility. I make each piece with intention, and then step back. It’s the wearer who finishes the story, who adds their own lived experience to the work.
From Earth to Object
The materials I work with — precious metals, gemstones, textures drawn from the land — are treasures of the earth. They remind me of the interconnection we often forget: that we are not separate from nature, but of it.
I treat them with reverence. To make things that last. To reuse, remelt, repurpose. Unlike plastic or fast-fashion pieces, precious metals stay with us over time, circulating between us, passing onto others. They hold memory. They create history. Family stories, tales and songs. They live on.
Making as Listening
I start by listening to the materials, and to my own instincts. The stones speak, in their own way. A design emerges from the conversation. My role is to make them a good home. Shape ideas into reality.
The process is hands-on, full-bodied, deeply physical. I use traditional techniques that keep me in constant dialogue with the materials: the sound of tool meeting metal, the rhythm of hammer and flame. It’s a relationship; I’m not forcing the piece into being; I’m coaxing it forward, one decision at a time. It’s a partnership.
Over the years, I’ve made my own tools to create textures that match the language of the pieces I want to make. These tools are part of the work, carrying their own stories, too.
The Other Half of the Practice
I don’t often talk about my work in community development, at least not in relation to my jewellery making. But it’s always there — shaping the way I think, the way I create.
Both sides of my practice are about helping people reflect and connect. To ask who they are. What they value. How they relate to others, to the land, to society. Sometimes that work happens in a workshop. Sometimes in a necklace.
Jewellery as Conversation and Memory
Jewellery is personal. It marks turning points. It carries memory. It speaks; sometimes softly, sometimes boldly.
It can say:
I belong.
I matter.
I am loved.
I remember.
I succeed.
Jewellery can also spark connection. A compliment becomes a conversation. A question becomes a story. The piece becomes the start of something — a thread that winds its way into someone else’s life.
Place-Based Inspiration
People often ask if I consider myself a nature artist. I don’t. But I do consider myself place-based. My surroundings — the woods, the water, the wind — shape how I move through the world. As do the people and communities around me.
Inspiration is found on forest pathways, or in the hush of snowfall. It’s about the sensory moments that imprint themselves on the human spirit: the sound of twigs breaking underfoot, the brush of wind through leaves, the deep pause of a moonlit sky. Sometimes it’s the shimmer of light on water. The way the seasons soften the landscape. The scent of damp branches. The cyclical quiet of falling, resting, and returning again.
These moments rarely show up literally in my work, but they’re always there, beneath the surface. Part of the rhythm. Part of the reason.
Looking Ahead
My work is quiet. Considered. Intentional. Every piece begins with a question or a feeling — and ends with you. You bring the final meaning. You make the piece live.
Thank you for being part of that.
This is the first in a series of reflections on the deeper layers behind my work: the ideas, values, and questions that keep showing up — whether I’m hammering silver or helping a community reimagine its future.
Until next time, may you feel held by the objects you carry, and by the people and places that shape you.