Surface tells the story, and the story is intention.

In my work, every mark—every ridge, every sharp rise or soft fall—is carved with care. The peaks and valleys are shaped by hours of quiet interrogation. Nothing is left to chance.

It’s not about making something rough or organic. It’s about making it right. The right kind of jagged edge. The perfect fragment of rock. An ultra-sharp talon claw placed exactly where it draws the eye and anchors the form.

The Terroir Ring  holds this principle in its bones. Its polished shank and claws offset a wildly rugged body, textured like a landscape pulled from deep within the earth. It supports a large, faceted gemstone as if transported back to the terrain it was formed within—a stoic monument to erosion, fracture, and form.

Even in my roughest rings, the inside is smooth, the shape is round, and the piece is finely finished. Not just for appearance—but for wear.

Knowing your ring has been crafted with such care in a place only you feel—but no one else sees—is what separates this work from the amateur or the ornamental. These details are a quiet practice in humility. To care so deeply about the parts only the wearer will know is, to me, the essence of craft.

The Ash Ring  is carved with some of the most rugged textures I’ve made. Its outer surface is fragmented and deeply raw. But inside, it’s seamlessly smooth. Every time someone tries it on, they say the same thing: “Wow, I didn’t realise it would feel so smooth!”

That contrast is deliberate. It’s unexpected. And it’s what makes the ring feel whole.

There was a time when I described my work as “perfectly imperfect.” But I no longer believe that imperfection defines it. These pieces are not improvised—they are fully realised, finely constructed, intentionally shaped, and meaningfully resolved.

The Vinifera Earrings  are a study in that evolution. Each form bends away from symmetry, drawing weight toward one edge before tapering into lightness. Rugged textures cluster in waves, then fall away to smooth, refined lines—creating a sense of imbalance that feels deliberate, even architectural.

Sharp talon claws, polished interiors, and bright-cut bezel settings all define a piece’s structure. They heighten contrast. They show that what appears weathered has been carved with purpose.

As I grow within my practice, I’ve come to see my work as a reflection of something deeper—the body of the earth, and the body of us.

The weathered terrain that inspires me is not just a metaphor. It’s a mirror.
Our bones grow weak and weary. Our skin reveals the lines of joy and sorrow. Our hair grows coarse, loses its saturation. These are the marks of all we’ve endured—proof of survival.

Our weathered bodies tell the tales of our existence.
So too do these talismans.

Not pristine, but perfect; by design.