Over a decade ago, my husband and I moved up to the Catskills from Brooklyn for a change in the quality of our lives. The rat race of New York City was very much not for me, but I do love that it’s still close enough for me to pop in and take advantage of it when I want to.
I was recently itching for a trip, which coincided nicely with where I am in the process of developing a new collection. That was the prefect excuse to go into the city to visit my vendors and do some supply shopping, and my trip at the end of July followed my usual formula:
There’s something so wonderfully tactile and genuine about wobbly, imperfect forms. I get why we strive for perfection, but perfection feels a bit cold and untouchable, no? I like it better when you can sense the person behind an object. From an off-center shape or the marks of a sanding file or a scratchy finish, it just feels like it has more soul.
I was recently at dinner with a friend, catching up and inhaling the appetizers, when sort of randomly she asked me, “Why gold?” Wait, what?
“Why did you make the sudden switch to gold?”
Her question reminded me that she (and also you!) don’t live 24/7 with me in my brain, and haven’t gone through the months (possibly years?) of deep thinking about jewelry and how or why I make it.
So maybe it’s time for some clarity. There are 3 main reasons why I’ve recently made the switch to making (mostly) solid gold jewelry:
Over the last 10 years of living in the Catskill Mountains, it’s been wonderful getting to know other artists, makers, and creatives in this area and brainstorming fun ways to play together.
A recent project with a local creative was with Rick Holbrook, a still-life and product photographer who I’d been Instagram-stalking for the last few years. He has a fantastic sense of light, composition, and styling, and I was too happy to get my jewelry in front of his camera when he suggested that we team up.
I have memories of being a little girl, playing outside in the yard and picking the wildflowers growing along the fence around my house. I’d always look for the ones with long, spindly stems that could be wrapped together to make flower crowns for myself and tiny bouquets for my mom.
As I grew up, those flowers suddenly took on new meaning — “Loves me, loves me not, loves me, loves me not…” until you landed on the last petal, which told you if your feelings were reciprocated.
