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The changing shape of luxury

June 13, 2026

When I was five, my mother found herself raising me on her own. We lived modestly and she worked really hard. And somehow, even with all she was carrying, she still found a way to take me on trips every year. I loved those trips. I loved being somewhere different, seeing things I didn’t see every day, and feeling for a little while like the world was bigger than the one I knew.

Even then, I felt those trips were a luxury, modest as they may have been. They were a break in my ordinary life and gave me memories I carried long after I was home again.

Of course, that’s not what I thought luxury meant for a very long time. I grew up watching Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous and later MTV Cribs, and luxury looked like enormous houses, expensive cars, giant clothes filled closets, massive swimming pools, and the kind of life that seemed to exist only for people who had somehow been chosen for a different world.

By high school, I had already learned that belonging had rules. It mattered where you lived, what your house looked like, what your parents did for work, and what brand of clothing you wore. I remember saving my babysitting money to buy my first Ralph Lauren Polo shirt, hoping this one shirt would help me pass some unspoken test. And I’m embarrassed to say now, that I also remember hoping no one from school would see me walk into Kmart with my mother.

That memory still makes me ache a little. I remember being that girl so clearly. Wanting to be accepted. Wanting to disappear and be seen at the same time. Wanting the right thing to make me feel like I was enough.

For a lot of years, I thought luxury was something just beyond my reach. Something that belonged to people with bigger lives, better clothes, and doors that opened more easily for them. But moving to Hawaii began to unravel that belief in me.

Hawaii is incredibly expensive, and like so many people there, I was living hand to mouth. I was young and single, and one of my first jobs had me working from 3 to 11 at night, which meant the first part of the day was mine. I’d go to the beach before work or hike through the nearby rainforest with the scent of damp earth, eucalyptus, and ginger in the air. This was the best part of my day.

I didn’t have the things I had once associated with luxury. I didn’t have extra money for clothes or any real sense of security. But I had beauty everywhere. I had the ocean. I had mornings that belonged to me. I had the feeling of being fully inside my own life, and that began to feel like luxury in a way no brand name ever had.

Later, when my daughter was four months old, I moved back to my hometown. I was leaving a marriage that had become deeply unhealthy, and I needed safety, stability, and the ability to raise my daughter with both feet on the ground. In many ways, I found what I was looking for, and I was grateful for that, but I missed the texture of those days in Hawaii. I missed stepping outside and being met by beauty. I missed those small daily experiences that didn’t cost anything but changed how I felt inside my own body.

For years, I believed I would go back. Instead, life unfolded differently. I remarried, and in my husband I found a kind of steadiness that helped reset my nervous system. Slowly, with more safety beneath me, I found my way back to parts of myself that had been waiting. Eventually, I began building a business around my art, something I had dreamed of long before I knew how it could ever be real.

Somewhere through all of that, my idea of luxury changed. It stopped being about having something that proved I belonged. It stopped being about the label, the house, or the status. Now it feels much more personal than that. It feels like the freedom to follow an idea at my bench and see where it wants to go. It feels like morning rituals I love, time at the lake, floating in the sun, a beautiful meal, travel, and purchasing something special from another artist or small business because I know there is a real person behind it.

I think many of us are beginning to feel that shift. The old idea of luxury feels a little thinner than it used to. Big brands feel less special. More recognizable, maybe, but not always more meaningful. And as technology and AI move deeper into nearly every part of our lives, handmade work begins to feel even more important. I think there will always be something irreplaceable about what passes through the human hand. There’s something different about an object that begins with a person noticing something in the world, feeling something in their heart, and then trying to bring it to life through their hands with skill and care.

When I make a piece of jewelry, I’m thinking about weight, movement, texture, proportion, feeling, and the small strange details that make something feel alive. I’m thinking about the person who may one day wear it and what it might mean to them. I’m thinking about beauty, but also connection. I’m thinking about the beauty of the natural world, because so much of what I make begins there.

And when someone chooses to support my work, that purchase becomes part of a much larger circle. It helps support my family. It helps keep this small creative life going. It helps me buy from other artists, small lapidaries, local businesses, independent shops, and people who are also trying to make a life with their hands and hearts. It also allows me to give in ways that matter to me, especially to causes that care for the natural world.

That may not be the glossy version of luxury we were sold, but to me it feels far more beautiful. There’s something intimate about knowing where something came from. Knowing there was a real person behind it. Knowing your dollars did not simply disappear into some enormous machine, but moved through a life, a family, a community, and maybe even back into the earth in some small way.

Sometimes a pretty piece of pottery catches your eye, or a handcrafted necklace makes your heart do that little leap, and you don’t need an explanation for wanting it. Delight is allowed. Small moments of pleasure are allowed. But I do think it matters to ask what we want the things we choose to hold. Do we want the things we choose to be about feeling accepted by others, or do we want them to bring us back to ourselves?

That’s what I hope my work does. I hope it offers a small moment of beauty in the middle of an ordinary day. I hope it becomes the ring you glance down at when you need to remember your own steadiness, the necklace you reach for because it feels like a little piece of protection, or the earrings that make you feel more like yourself before you walk out the door.

Luxury, to me now, isn’t only about what something costs. It’s about how it makes you feel. It’s about rarity, care, connection, and the values carried inside the thing itself. Sometimes it’s simply sunshine on your skin, or laughing so hard that you cry, or an hour in nature when the world feels too loud. And sometimes it is choosing something beautiful, made slowly by human hands, because it reminds you that you are worth beauty too.

That’s the kind of luxury I believe in now. Not one that asks us to prove we belong, but that helps us remember we already do.

We all carry places inside us

June 07, 2026

When I think about some of my favorite memories throughout my life, the ocean is almost always there somewhere.

Childhood trips to Florida, searching for sand dollars and watching horseshoe crabs move through the shallows. Days spent on the beach outside my home in Maui, where the rhythm of the water became part of daily life. Diving in different parts of the world and feeling that strange, weightless wonder that comes from being surrounded by blue. Long evenings in Greece, sitting at tavernas with family and friends, sharing food, laughter, and that particular kind of happiness that seems to happen when the sea is nearby.

I don’t think I understood it when I was younger, but I was always collecting pieces of those places.

Shells. Bits of coral. Smooth stones. Tiny fragments that felt too beautiful to leave behind.

As a child, I would gather them up and often string one or two onto a cord to wear. Nothing fancy, just some small treasure I had found and wanted to keep close. And honestly, not much has changed. I still collect shells, stones, and little bits of the natural world with the same curiosity I had then. I still bring them home, display them, study them, and sometimes, when the right one speaks, turn them into something wearable.

So it feels both ironic and sometimes downright tragic that I’ve been living in the Midwest for nearly 30 years now.

I always thought I would move back to Hawaii. I argued with that reality for a long time. I stomped my feet internally, and probably externally too, because subtlety has never been my strongest life skill. But life had other plans, as it so often does. Family, timing, responsibilities, roots, love, all the things that slowly shape a life even when they don’t follow the map we thought we were carrying.

And yet, the ocean never really left me.

It shows up again and again in my work. Sometimes literally, through natural shells, pearls, soft sandy colors, and sunset hues that make me think of the last light hanging over the water. Other times it appears in a less obvious way, like a watery aquamarine with a wispy green ribbon inclusion that seems to move inside the stone, or a pearl with an uneven surface that feels shaped by something deeper than perfection.

I think that’s part of what I love so much about working with natural materials. They hold memory in their own way. A shell carries the story of the water. A pearl holds the slow work of time. A stone keeps record of pressure, movement, minerals, and change. These materials have already lived before they ever reach my bench.

When I create with them, I’m not trying to erase that history. I’m trying to honor it.

Whether it’s a stone I’ve chosen with care or a shell I picked up along the beach, I’m responding to the feeling it gives me. The place it brings me back to. The memory it stirs. The small pull that says, this matters, even if I don’t have perfect words for why.

That’s one of the reasons jewelry has always felt like more than adornment to me. It can become a touchstone. Something that rests against the body and carries meaning. A piece can bring us back to a place we loved, a season of life, a version of ourselves we’re still connected to, or a feeling we don’t want to lose.

Maybe that’s why I’m still drawn to shells after all these years. They feel like small keepsakes from another life, another place, another version of myself who still lives somewhere close to the surface.

Maybe for you it’s the ocean too. Or maybe it’s a lake, a garden, a childhood home, a trip you still think about, or a person whose presence stays with you in unexpected ways.

I think we all carry places inside us.

And sometimes, if we’re lucky, we find small ways to keep them close.

Jewelry for the Body, Jewelry for the Home

May 30, 2026

I’m pretty sure if I wasn’t a jewelry artist, I’d be designing jewelry for the home.

I love lighting, cabinet handles, door knobs, old mirrors, textured walls, and all the pretty accents layered together thoughtfully that give personality to a space. The things that make you stop for a second and notice. The small details that make a room feel considered, personal, and lived in.

A room often has a statement piece that draws you in, while texture, color, shapes, and smaller accents lend themselves to a feeling or mood. Maybe it’s a sculptural light fixture with handblown glass, an old wooden cabinet with beautiful hardware, a woven rug, or a wall with just enough texture to make the whole room feel more alive.

Jewelry can do the same thing.

It can be the statement piece, or the small supporting accent that pulls everything together. But unlike a chandelier or a carved cabinet knob, jewelry moves with you. It becomes part of how you feel in your own body.

Sometimes it’s an outward expression, showing the world a little of who you are that day. Other times, it’s more inward. A small reminder of the person you are on those days when you feel a little scattered, tired, or disconnected from yourself.

That’s what makes handcrafted jewelry feel so special to me. It isn’t endlessly reproduced or made to disappear into the background. It carries the hand of the maker, the personality of the materials, and eventually, the life of the person who wears it.

I think this is why I’m so drawn to pieces with texture, unusual stones, subtle imperfections, and unexpected combinations. They feel more like objects you live with than things you simply own. They have their own presence, but they also leave room for your own story to become part of them.

My newest earrings (shown in the collage above) came from that place of thinking about adornment beyond the body. I was imagining modern lighting with handblown glass, textured walls, aged metal, and the kind of details you notice when a space feels layered and lived in.

They have that mix of softness and structure I’m always drawn to. A little romantic, a little modern art, and made slowly by hand in oxidized silver.

And maybe that’s what I love most about making jewelry. It lets me create small, wearable pieces of atmosphere. Not just something to put on and forget about, but something that can shift the way you feel when you catch it in the mirror, touch it absentmindedly during the day, or choose it because it feels like the version of yourself you want to remember.

Handmade jewelry has a different kind of presence. Like a statement piece in a room, it can change the feeling of everything around it. But it also carries an intimacy that home objects can’t quite hold. It rests against your skin. It moves through your day with you. It becomes part of your gestures, your rituals, your memories.

That kind of detail matters to me.

Because beauty isn’t only in the big, obvious things. Sometimes it’s in the small accent that pulls everything together. The unusual stone. The soft shimmer. The aged metal. The shape that feels a little unexpected. The piece you reach for because, for whatever reason, it feels like you.

And in a world where so much is made quickly, copied endlessly, and designed to be replaced, there’s something deeply meaningful about choosing a piece made slowly by hand. Something with a little soul in it. Something created in small numbers, or only once. Something that doesn’t belong to everyone.

Something that belongs to you.

Stones That Show Their Story

May 23, 2026

I’ve always been drawn to stones with veils, gardens, smoky places, tiny flashes, and strange little markings that make you pause and look a little closer. Ones that feel like they hold a small world inside. So this week I thought I would share a little more about these magical stones.

(Photo: Pinterest)

In the traditional gem world, clarity is often treated as one of the highest forms of beauty. A stone that is clear, clean, and free of visible inclusions is usually considered more valuable, and yes, those stones can be beautiful. But as an artist, I’m captivated by detail and things I haven’t seen before.

Inclusions are not mistakes so much as records of what was happening while the stone was forming. They are traces of minerals, pressure, movement, and time, held inside the crystal like a tiny geological memory. Sometimes an inclusion is another mineral that became trapped as the stone grew. Sometimes it is a fine needle-like crystal, like rutile inside quartz. Sometimes it is a veil, a pocket, or a shift in color that tells us the stone did not form in a perfectly still, perfectly controlled environment. It formed in the earth, under pressure, with other elements nearby, over a span of time that is hard for most of us to even imagine. By the time these stones reach my bench, they already have movement, texture, color, and story living inside them.

One-of-a-kind gemstone chain earrings with aquamarine, pearl, copper rutile quartz, and oxidized sterling silver on white background

The aquamarine in this new pair of earrings has the most beautiful copper-colored ribbon moving through it. I can’t say for certain what mineral caused that warm internal marking without a gemological lab test, but I can say that it was exactly what made it special to me. It gives the stone movement, almost like something flowing with the current beneath a watery surface.

I paired it with a baroque pearl and copper rutile quartz, and the whole piece started to feel like a conversation between softness and texture, clarity and interruption, water and earth. The pearl brings its own luminous glow, while the rutile quartz carries those fine coppery threads inside it, like light caught in motion.

This is one of the things I love most about working with unusual stones. They come as they are, with their own markings, their own mood, their own history, and my job is to listen to that and build around it. A perfectly clear stone can be beautiful, of course, but an included stone feels like that person who walks into the room and you immediately want to get to know. It has a presence that feels more authentic. More human, maybe.

That feels very much like the heart of my work. I don’t choose stones because they are perfect. I choose them because they have something to say. Because they carry color, pattern, texture, and story in a way that feels impossible to duplicate. Because one tiny ribbon, one spray of rutile, one strange little internal world can turn a gemstone into something that feels completely alive.

Once, I Was 25 - A Memory in Earrings

May 10, 2026

I was sorting through a box of old photos earlier this week. Most were from my early days in Hawaii, some from when I was a new mom, and others from college. Now 58, seeing my younger self sometimes feels a little bittersweet. There’s a freedom in youth, just like there’s a freedom in aging. Different, but one not better than the other.

Later that day, I sat down at my bench, and this pair of earrings formed from one of those early memories.

The amethyst crystals, agate, chalcedony rose, and dark oxidized silver have a raw, sculptural edge that immediately took me back to my 25-year-old self on the day I was trying to get pumped up for my very first tattoo.

Now, this was long before every third person had a tattoo.

I was sitting in my car with my boyfriend at the time, parked outside the tattoo shop, listening to Ministry (loudly) and trying to feel braver than I probably was.

This story really sounds too good to be true, but we walked into the shop and I was clearly out of my element. Several bikers and their girlfriends were sitting around on couches in the middle of this dimly lit room, and one guy was wrapped in bandages from head to toe. Seriously, mummy style.

As I sat in the chair, surrounded by the tools of my tattoo artist’s trade and trying not to stare at mummy man, I noticed a picture of Axl Rose on the wall next to me. Apparently, he had sat in the same chair. The tattoo artist was hairy, big, and quite intimidating.

As he worked on my tattoo, a female tattoo artist kept peering at me. I was finally getting comfortable with my own tattoo artist, but she was terrifying. Like one of those girls I’d pass after school, the kind you didn’t dare look at too long in case they followed you home and kicked your ass.

I sat still and quiet for an hour.

Then finally, she came closer and said, “Nice, honey,” and took out a pack of cigarettes.

I have no idea why that moment has stayed with me so clearly, but it has. The music, the room, the bikers on the couches, the bandaged mummy man, the picture of Axl Rose, the smoke, the feeling of trying to look like I belonged somewhere I absolutely did not.

But honestly, it's a memory I love.

The tattoo was meant to remind me one day, when I was my mother’s age with grown children, that once, I was 25.

And here I am now, with grown children, making jewelry that sometimes still reaches back and taps that younger version of me on the shoulder.

These earrings have that same feeling to me. A little softness tucked inside the bold exterior. That young, uncertain kind of bravery, when you’re still figuring out who you are but walking in anyway.

They’re mismatched, but the same length. Three different mineral specimens brought together through color, texture, and oxidized silver. Each side has its own personality, but they still feel connected.

Kind of like the versions of ourselves we carry around. The soft ones, the brave ones, the awkward ones, the ones trying to look cooler than they feel, and the ones who look back years later and smile.

Following a Feeling: The Inspiration Behind the Phosphosiderite Lantern Earrings

May 07, 2026

On the Slowmade Podcast, I often ask my guests where they get their design inspiration. Sometimes they say it comes from nature, and you can see that literally in the work. Other times they mention architecture, and you can see it in the form, structure, and lines.

For me, this has always been a little harder to explain because most of the time it’s subconscious. I’m not usually starting with a clear theme or a perfectly mapped-out idea. I’m searching for a feeling as I combine stones, texture, shape, and color.

Then, as the piece begins to take shape, I get that sense of there it is. That’s usually when I can finally name what the feeling is.

The colors I’m drawn to are almost always connected to something I’m longing for. A beautiful sunrise or sunset. Travel to a faraway place. A sense of grounding. A spark of joy. Something earthy, something layered, something that feels like it carries a little story inside it.

With these earrings, I started simply with a leafy pattern that I rolled into sterling silver, then cut into a lantern-like shape. I didn’t begin with Morocco in mind. I didn’t sit down and say, “I’m going to make Moroccan-inspired earrings today.” That would be far too organized and suspiciously unlike me.

Instead, I followed the materials.

As I searched through my stones, I kept coming back to the vivid pink and golden cream of this phosphosiderite. The color felt unusual and alive, but also softened somehow, like something that had been touched by sun, time, and weather. There was something in it that reminded me of brightly colored old stucco in a faraway place.

The longer I looked at the earrings, the clearer it became. The lantern shape. The leafy texture. The stone with its pink, sun-worn color. Suddenly I kept thinking about Morocco — the layered architecture, the warm walls, the patterned details, the feeling of wandering through a place that feels both ancient and vibrant.

And there it was.

Not a literal interpretation, but a small nod to the feeling of Morocco. The kind of inspiration that arrives slowly, through color and texture, before you even realize what you’ve been following.

That is often how my work comes together. One small decision leads to the next. A stone catches my attention. A shape begins to suggest something. A texture adds another layer. Then all at once, the piece becomes more than the separate parts.

These earrings feel travel-worn and a little exotic, but still earthy and wearable. The phosphosiderite brings that vivid pink and golden cream color, while the oxidized sterling silver adds depth and contrast. The leafy pattern gives them movement and a bit of old-world romance, without feeling too polished or perfect.

They feel like a small doorway into somewhere else.

A little reminder that jewelry can hold more than materials. It can hold a mood, a memory, a longing, or a place you’ve never been but somehow recognize.

Made to be worn, cherished, and imbued with your own story.

The Enduring Story of the Shell Cameo

March 05, 2026

Few pieces of jewelry carry history quite the way a shell cameo does. With their softly carved profiles and warm, layered tones, shell cameos have been worn, collected, and treasured for centuries. They feel like tiny works of sculpture—little portraits that connect us to centuries of handcraft, which is one of the reasons I’ve been so drawn to working with them in my jewelry lately.

Ancient Beginnings

The art of cameo carving dates all the way back to ancient Greece and Rome. Early cameos were often carved from hard stones like agate, layered so the raised image appeared in a lighter color against a darker background. These pieces depicted gods, rulers, and mythological scenes and were prized as symbols of status and artistry.

By the 18th and 19th centuries, cameo carving evolved into the shell cameos many of us recognize today. Italian artisans, particularly in Torre del Greco near Naples, began carving cameos from shells such as the Cassis madagascariensis and Cypraecassis rufa. The natural layers of these shells made them ideal for carving delicate portraits in pale ivory against warm peach or coral backgrounds.

During the Victorian era, shell cameos became wildly popular. Women wore them as brooches, pendants, bracelets, and even tiaras. They often depicted classical women with flowing hair, flowers, or mythological themes, reflecting the Victorian fascination with antiquity and symbolism.

Why They Still Captivate Us

Part of the magic of a shell cameo is the unmistakable presence of the human hand. Each one begins as a plain shell and is slowly carved away with tiny tools until a figure emerges from the surface. No two are ever quite the same.

That sense of individuality is a big part of their charm. Cameos feel personal, almost like miniature heirlooms waiting to find their next story.

They also have a timeless quality. A cameo can feel antique and modern at the same time. Worn on a chain, added to a brooch, or incorporated into contemporary jewelry, these carved portraits continue to bring a sense of history and artistry into the present.

A Small Piece of History You Can Wear

When you hold a shell cameo, you’re holding more than a decorative object. You’re holding a tradition that stretches back thousands of years—one that celebrates patient craftsmanship and storytelling through materials from the natural world.

And perhaps that’s why they continue to enchant us. Each cameo carries the feeling that it has lived a life before reaching us… and still has many stories left to tell.

The Long, Lived History of the Fibula

February 08, 2026

A small object with a very big story.

Before buttons.
Before zippers.
Before fast fashion even thought about existing.

There was the fibula.

At its most basic, a fibula is a pin or clasp used to fasten clothing. But calling it just a fastener is like calling jewelry “just decoration.” From its earliest forms, the fibula has lived at the intersection of function, identity, and meaning.

What exactly is a fibula?

The word fibula comes from Latin, meaning “clasp” or “fastener.” Structurally, it’s the ancestor of the modern safety pin—designed to hold garments together while being worn daily, often for years, sometimes for a lifetime.

But unlike today’s purely utilitarian closures, fibulas were intentionally visible. They sat at the shoulder, chest, or heart. They were meant to be seen.

And that’s where things get interesting.

From necessity to ornament

The earliest fibulas appear during the Bronze Age, around 2000 BCE, spreading across Europe and the Mediterranean. At first, they were simple wire forms—practical solutions for fastening cloaks and tunics.

Over time, those simple forms evolved. As metalworking advanced, so did the fibula’s role. What began as necessity slowly became adornment.

Different cultures shaped fibulas in distinct ways, often making them immediately recognizable markers of place, status, or belonging.

Fibulas across cultures

Ancient Rome

Roman fibulas were everywhere. Soldiers, citizens, and officials all wore them, with styles signaling rank and role. Some were purely practical; others were lavishly decorated with enamel, gemstones, or symbolic motifs. A fibula could quietly announce who you were long before you spoke.

Celtic culture

Celtic fibulas often leaned into fluid, organic forms—curves, spirals, and animal imagery. Many were richly expressive, blurring the line between adornment and talisman. These weren’t just closures; they carried meaning, protection, and personal identity.

Ancient Greece

Greek fibulas were commonly used to fasten peplos garments. While some were simple, others featured refined decorative elements, reinforcing the idea that even daily objects deserved beauty and intention.

Viking Age

In Viking culture, fibulas were often worn in pairs and played a central role in women’s dress. Oval brooches, in particular, were both functional and symbolic—anchoring garments while signaling cultural identity and craftsmanship.

More than a clasp

What I love most about fibulas is how intimate they are.

They weren’t removed at the end of the day like modern accessories. They lived on the body. They bore the marks of wear. They absorbed the rhythms of daily life—movement, labor, travel, rest.

In many cultures, fibulas were passed down. Repaired. Reworked. Cherished.

They held clothing together, yes. But they also held stories.

From ancient object to modern talisman

At some point, buttons replaced fibulas. Then zippers took over. The fibula quietly stepped out of daily necessity.

But it never disappeared.

Today, fibulas re-emerge not because we need them—but because we’re drawn to what they represent: slowness, intention, history, and connection. A return to objects that do more than one thing.

A modern fibula still fastens. Still anchors. Still sits close to the heart.

And perhaps that’s why it continues to feel so relevant—especially now.

A small object with staying power

The fibula reminds us that beauty and utility were never meant to be separate. That adornment can be practical. That objects can carry meaning simply by being worn, used, and loved over time.

It’s a humble form.
An ancient one.
And somehow, still deeply current.

The Allure of Red: A Color With a Long, Beating Heart

November 14, 2025

There’s something about the color red that has followed humanity through every century, every culture, every story we’ve told. It’s the color of heartbeat and firelight, of determination and desire, of strength and softness woven together. It’s a color you feel before you even name it.

As a jewelry artist, I’m always paying attention to the hues I’m pulled toward. Lately, red has been calling — not the loud or flashy kind, but the earthy, grounded reds that seem to hum from the inside out. Think deep jasper, soft rosy tones, warm terra-cotta, and those dusky, ancient reds that seem to carry their own history.

And red does have a history. A long one.

Centuries ago, red pigments were considered precious — reserved for kings, queens, spiritual leaders, and travelers seeking protection. In ancient China, red was believed to bring luck and vitality. In Greece and Rome, it symbolized courage and sacred life-force. Medieval artists used it to draw the eye toward the most meaningful parts of a painting. Even today, we wear red when we want to feel bold, grounded, or simply alive.

It’s the color people reach for when they’re stepping into something new… or when they need a spark of courage they can literally hold onto.

Maybe that’s why the red stones on my bench right now feel especially powerful. Each one carries its own small universe — layers of sediment, minerals, and time — all compressed into something you can wear against your skin.

When I choose stones for my pieces, I don’t think about trends. I think about how they make us feel. And red has always been a color that lifts, warms, and steadies us. It’s protective. It’s energizing. And it has a way of reminding us that we are vividly, beautifully alive.

If you’re drawn to red right now, trust that.

Color is intuitive. Sometimes we reach for what we need before we understand why.

The Timeless Allure of the Evil Eye

October 30, 2025

Protection, intention, and beauty intertwined.

For thousands of years, people across cultures have worn a small symbol believed to ward off harm — the evil eye. From the blue-glazed amulets of ancient Greece and Turkey to the intricate gold charms of modern jewelry, this ancient talisman has traveled through time, geography, and belief systems, all while holding the same simple promise: protection from envy and ill will.

The “evil eye” itself isn’t the charm — it’s the curse. Many early civilizations believed that certain looks of jealousy or admiration carried an invisible force capable of bringing misfortune. To deflect this energy, artisans began creating protective eyes of their own — often in brilliant shades of blue and white, representing the divine watchfulness that shields the wearer from harm.

Across the Mediterranean, the Middle East, and even parts of South Asia, the symbol took on countless forms — painted on boats, set in gold jewelry, woven into fabric, or hung above doorways. Each version whispered the same message: may only good energy reach you.

Today, the evil eye remains one of the world’s most enduring symbols. Beyond superstition, it’s become a personal reminder to protect our peace — to stay grounded and clear-eyed in a world full of noise. Whether worn as a daily amulet or a touch of mystery in your favorite earrings, it’s more than adornment. It’s intention made visible.

Find a piece that speaks to your own story of protection and presence — and carry that quiet power wherever you go.

The Timeless Allure of Venetian Glass Intaglios

October 22, 2025

Why These Miniature Portraits Have Captured My Heart (and My Workbench)

Every now and then, a material comes along that feels less like a component and more like a key—unlocking history, myth, and emotion in a single glance. Venetian glass intaglios are exactly that.

Before I ever set one in metal, I was captivated by their quiet drama: tiny faces, ancient figures, mythic scenes—suspended in amber, pale aqua, stormy blue, gray, lavender, or soft rose glass. They’re beautifully romantic, yes. But their true magic lies in their origin story.

From Antiquity to the Grand Tour

The word intaglio comes from the Italian intagliare—“to carve.” In ancient Greece and Rome, intaglios were carved directly into gemstones like carnelian or agate and used as seals to sign documents or wear as talismans. Each one carried a narrative: a god of protection, a muse of creativity, a guardian of love or fate.

Centuries later, during the 18th and 19th centuries, wealthy travelers embarked on what was called the Grand Tour—a cultural pilgrimage through Italy. Venice, with its unmatched glassmaking tradition, began recreating these ancient designs in richly colored glass. Artisans pressed classical myths, Roman goddesses, and poetic symbols into molds, reviving an ancient art form in a new, luminous medium.

These weren’t just souvenirs. They were keepsakes of wonder—proof that you had walked through history and wanted to carry something beautiful home.

Imperfection as Authenticity

One of the reasons I cherish these glass intaglios is their subtle imperfection. Some carry faint bubbles from the glass pour, others a softened edge from time. No two are identical, and that individuality makes each piece feel deeply human. It’s as if each one has survived a journey of its own.

Why I Set Them in Jewelry

When I design with intaglios, I’m not just making a necklace or ring—I’m framing a story. A fragment of myth. A glimpse of a goddess. A reminder that beauty often outlives its maker.

I think that’s why so many of you have been drawn to them too. They feel like relics, like something rediscovered rather than newly made. They remind us that we are connected to something ancient… something enduring.

A New Chapter in an Old Tale

I’ve been quietly collecting my favorite intaglios—each chosen for its expression, its hue, its soul. I set them slowly, one at a time, letting metal and glass find their balance. Some pieces feel regal, others tender. All of them hold a secret.

If one speaks to you, I hope you’ll listen. These pieces aren’t trends—they’re heirlooms in waiting.

Buy Once, Buy Well: Choosing a Foundational Piece of Jewelry

October 17, 2025

There’s a question I’m asked often: “If I were to invest in just one piece—where should I start?”
And I’ll be honest… as someone who adores earrings, I surprise myself when I say this:
I’d start with a chain.

But not just any chain—the right chain. One that anchors everything else you wear. One that lives with you from morning coffee to evening dinner, from jeans to silk. For me, that’s my Chunky Chain Necklace. It’s the piece I reach for without thinking, because it does what true foundational pieces do best: it adapts, it grounds, it never argues with the rest of your jewelry story.

In a world of trends, I believe in buying once and buying well. Investing in pieces built to last, designed to age beautifully, and meant to hold meaning—not clutter our drawers.

Why a Foundational Piece Matters

A foundational piece isn’t always the flashiest. It’s the one that quietly shows up—day after day—without needing attention. It’s the frame, the beginning, the steady heartbeat of your collection.

The right chain can be worn alone, layered up, or used to showcase talismans and pendants. It shifts with your mood, season, and style. That’s why I recommend investing in one thoughtfully made, with materials that can truly stand the test of time.

How to Choose a Foundational Jewelry Piece

Here are a few things I always tell collectors to look for:

1. Choose Solid Materials Over Shortcuts

Recycled sterling silver, gold, or mixed metals that can be repaired, polished, and lived with. Avoid plated pieces meant to be replaced. Foundational jewelry should age—gracefully, not poorly.

2. Look for Versatility

A good base piece should work with everything: sweaters, dresses, linen, silk. Try it with both simple and statement pieces. Does it fit in, or does it compete?

3. Think in Years, Not Weeks

Imagine yourself wearing it five years from now. If it feels just as right in that imagined future, that’s a sign.

4. Trust the Weight and Feel

A foundational piece should feel like something—substantial, grounded. You’ll know when it’s right because you’ll feel its presence, not just see it.

The Chain I Trust Most

My Chunky Chain Necklace was designed with this philosophy in mind: oxidized sterling silver links, solid 14k gold clasp. No fillers. No shortcuts. It stands alone beautifully, and just as easily carries a pendant or charm when a little storytelling is in order.

If you’re building your collection—and want to begin with intention—I truly believe in starting here.

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