The fragrance of gold powder and diamonds summoned my attention. The light in the room focused on my father’s hands as he laid down wax pieces for a diamond necklace, his glasses near the edge of his nose. I saw dull wax on a flat sheet of paper. He laughed. I learned.

That paradox is where I spend most of my time—between tension and care, precision and instinct. At the bench, each movement matters. I work slowly, by hand, setting each gem under magnification. The metal pushes back. The tools are sharp. But with the right rhythm, everything yields. This is how I build balance—quiet, intentional, and meant to endure.

I started with my dad’s original tools. The plan was to stay true to myself, the art, and an interest in form, balance, and how metal behaves when you listen to it.

I built a studio space, took on private commissions, and began to find the way. My focus sharpened: fewer pieces, more intention. Quality became the only measure.

Today, I design and build pieces in a way that feels quieter, slower, and more complete. My work is guided less by trends, more by the feeling that nothing is wasted—not the gold, not the time, not the gesture.