The Work
Pieces gathered before we had spoken. They were already for somebody.
I begin gathering when I feel a wedding coming. The wood I pick up corkscrews left or right; the copper has a particular patina; the sea glass is from a specific beach. By the time you write to me, half of what you will hold has been waiting for you.
Driftwood, gathered north of the canyon
A bouquet built from pieces that corkscrew left. I picked these up before I knew who they were for. She had a name like a river when she finally wrote to me.
Copper from a 1908 schoolhouse
Patinated blue. Worn at a green-and-copper ceremony in the trees behind Lipan Point. He told me later he had never imagined himself in any color but black.
A veil with two hundred and fifty beetle wings
Hand-stitched into lace. The first time I made one I was learning. I am not learning anymore.
Sea glass from a beach he could not go back to
His family's house had burned. The beach was where summer used to live. I had glass from the same shore in a jar, waiting.
A ring box capped with petrified sandstone
From my own property. I built the box around the slab. The lid is heavier than you would expect.
Rings on chains for the children being married into a family
Each child got their own. The new parent put it around their neck during the ceremony. The mother who brought them sobbed quietly. So did I.
If you want something the algorithm has shown a thousand other couples, I am not your person. If you want something made for you, this is what that looks like.
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