WHY I MAKE RELICS

So I married a bartender.

All I really wanted was a cigarette.

I have always been looking for the real thing.

The worn edge.
The piece of metal that has passed through other hands.
An old coin. Good leather. A stone. A pearl.

Things with weight.
Things that have been somewhere.

I am drawn to objects that carry a little evidence of having lived.

When I make something, I’m not interested in recreating the past.

I want to know what happens when something new arrives with the feeling of having always existed.

Something simple.
Something strange.
Something you can’t quite explain.

A piece of jewelry should feel good in your hand before it ever finds the body.

And then it should be worn.

Hard.

It should gather scratches. Tarnish. Skin. Salt. Smoke. Years.

It should go places.

Because the life of a piece doesn’t end when I finish making it.

That is only the beginning.

You wear it.
You live with it.
You forget it is there.

Until one day you realize it has become part of you.

Part of your story.

That is what I mean by a relic.

Something made now
that feels as though it remembers.

And I married that bartender.

We’re still married.