From Sketch to Sculptural Masterpiece: The Journey of an Oblik Atelier Piece
A Behind-the-Scenes Look at the Creative Process
Where do I start? With the sketch? The unformed metal in my hands? Or the walks through Tokyo that leave visions of shapes and twists imprinted in my imagination? In my studio, where hammered brass catches afternoon light and sterling silver curves into unlikely shapes, every piece starts with me getting weirdly obsessed with something most people would walk right past. A leaf. A shadow. The way morning light hits concrete. Always something completely ordinary that intrigues me.
The journey from idea to finished jewelry is non-linear. It's more a conversation with materials that have their own opinions, chasing ideas that might lead nowhere, and occasionally—if you're persistent enough—making something worthwhile.
Where Ideas Actually Come From
Inspiration doesn't keep business hours. It shows up at the most unexpected and sometimes mundane times, like walking your dog or sitting at a cafe. That's exactly what happened recently with my dog Liz—not some mystical muse. I found myself studying this one particular leaf during our daily walks like it held the meaning of life. But this wasn’t me checking out, this was a spark.
My inspiration varies wildly, and I've stopped trying to systematize it. I don't work on collections that get released seasonally like most jewelry brands. Instead, I think of pieces as they tie into ongoing stories I want to explore. I observe lines everywhere—in architecture, nature, the way people move through spaces. It probably sounds overly analytical, but that's just how my brain processes things now.
I'm fortunate to travel frequently, and I'm grateful for those moments of insight—what the Japanese call "satori"—that actually translate into something tangible. My trip to Egypt brought me the Horus pins, sharp and protective like the Brass Falcon Pin. New Zealand gave me the Koru earrings, inspired by unfurling fern fronds that symbolize new beginnings in Maori culture. My recent journey to Japan had me recreating the ethereal clouds that Bodhisattvas float upon in temple art, transforming them into the floral Byodoin earrings.
I usually see a complete idea in my head, then spend weeks figuring out how to make it real in three dimensions. Not all concepts work immediately—some fail so spectacularly, and others sit on my workbench for months like sullen teenagers, waiting for me to understand what the hell they want to become. Eventually, with patience and possibly some creative cursing, some of these dormant ideas ripen and I can complete their journey from thought to object.
Working Directly in Metal
Ninety percent of the time, I work straight from concept to metal. There are times I might experiment with clay or paper to visualize three-dimensional relationships, such as the time with the Byodoin earrings figuring out the curve of the flower. But honestly, I'm most satisfied when ideas flow directly from my head into metal. It feels like the most honest translation of the original vision—less filtered, more immediate, like pen to paper.
This approach isn't just about efficiency. It’s part of the journey, but every time you translate an idea through another medium, something gets lost. Sketches can be deceptive. Paper models don't behave like metal. A twine will lose its shape. Working directly with the final material keeps that initial spark of recognition intact.
In an ideal world, I'd work exclusively in gold—it's responsive, warm, and ages beautifully . But my philosophy centers on accessibility to a larger audience, so I primarily use brass that gets gold plated and sterling silver. Custom work gives me opportunities to explore gold, but I'm committed to what I call my "democratic materials." There's no point creating beautiful objects that only rich small percentage of people can afford.
The Art of Fabrication
Most jewelry you encounter is cast—someone creates a model, makes a silicone mold, then produces identical pieces through repetitive casting. It's efficient and predictable, but every piece is exactly the same unless you alter surface texture or add color later.
I work directly with sheet and wire through fabrication, which means each piece is individually made and no two are identical. I use half-round pliers, flat and round pliers, various mandrels, and primarily my hands to coax metal into compelling shapes. It's more time-intensive and occasionally frustrating, but it allows for larger-scale pieces that remain surprisingly lightweight. And who doesn’t love to get their hands dirty?
What's particularly challenging—and occasionally makes me curse—is that many of my earring designs require left and right versions. Sometimes I find myself genuinely puzzled trying to figure out how to replicate a complex curve in reverse, muttering things that would make my mother wash my mouth out with soap. But fabrication enables me to create substantial pieces that feel sculptural while remaining comfortable to wear, and there's something deeply satisfying about building each piece from scratch.
Surface as Storytelling
The final finish isn't decorative—it's integral to how each piece communicates, it’s intentional. From the beginning of this iteration of Oblik Atelier, I've developed two distinct aesthetic directions: Brass Band and Worn Years. Each requires its own approach and presents unique challenges.
Brass Band pieces are clean, architectural, geometric. High polish surfaces are essential because they showcase the angular relationships and flowing curves that define my aesthetic. The mirror-like finish isn't just beautiful—it's functional, using reflected light to emphasize the interplay between sharp edges and organic curves.
Worn Years represents my favorite challenge and the most technically demanding work. These pieces begin with brass that's carefully hammered, leaving subtle planishing marks from chasing hammers. . The relationship between developed patina and polished highlights creates depth and history, but it's aesthetically constraining. I have to design specifically for this finish, working backward from the desired surface quality to determine what forms will best support the technique.
Testing in the Real World
Beautiful jewelry that's uncomfortable to wear is essentially useless. Before anything leaves my studio, I test it thoroughly, which means I spend considerable time looking like I've been in minor accidents.
If you visit my workspace, you'll likely find me wearing bracelets with unfinished edges, so my arms look like I've been wrestling with particularly vindictive cats. I test earrings and walk around with temporary black marks on my cheeks, completely unaware until someone gives me that look. I've definitely left the studio and appeared in social situations looking like I've been mining coal, wondering why people seem concerned about my wellbeing.
But I test every piece systematically to ensure earrings sit properly, bracelets fit comfortably without restricting movement, and necklaces find their correct position against the body. Comfort isn't negotiable—beauty that causes pain isn't really beautiful.
Embracing Slow Craft
After nearly twenty years in corporate jewelry, designing seasonal collections and chasing trends, transitioning to independent practice brought freedom, responsibility and creative calm. Freedom to ignore fashion cycles and develop ideas at their natural pace. Responsibility to create objects worthy of permanence.
For Oblik Atelier, there are no seasons. My best-selling cuff has remained popular since it launched in 2012, which reinforces my belief in timeless design over trendy pieces. This approach requires intention at every stage—from initial concept through final finish.
Operating outside seasonal cycles means I don't run sales or need to clear inventory. I maintain lean operations and consider carefully what I introduce to the world. Time is finite, and I prefer not to contribute to waste or overconsumption.
Art and craft remain at the center, with human connection as the driving force. There's something of me in each piece someone wears, creating a relationship that extends beyond the transaction. This makes it an art practice first, a business second, which probably isn't optimal for retirement planning but keeps the work meaningful and my sanity mostly intact.
The Reality of Making
As a creator with no one to answer to and nobody to edit me, the journey from inspiration to finished piece is powerful. It isn't just about transforming metal—it's about maintaining the integrity of the original vision while navigating the practical realities of working with materials that have their own agenda. Every piece that leaves my studio carries intention, time, and traces of my persistence in the form of tiny tool marks and adjusted curves.
This is how jewelry transcends mere accessory status to become something more substantial—a carrier of human creativity, dedication, and the quiet satisfaction that comes from making things the deliberate way rather than the expedient way.
In a culture obsessed with speed and efficiency, I'm committed to taking the time necessary to make things properly. It's craft without shortcuts, design without compromise, and jewelry that respects both the maker and the wearer.
If you want mass-produced consistency, plenty of options exist. If you want something that carries a bit of human soul that's what I'm here to make.