I weave copper in way philosophers weave paradox, not to solve it, but to hold it in a form hands can understand. Wrire does not obey imediately. It argues, it hardens, it tests sincerity of intention. Only when time replaces force does it soften into shape.
Amethyst I set was once held in the Botanical Gardens, where a long conversation about novels, friendship, and the architecture of disorder unfolded beside damp soil and branch shadows. My friend insisted that meaning emerges through suffering. Stone replied differently in sun, silent, violet, unbothered, containing both the fracture and the light without choosing between them. A whole world existing peacefully inside contradiction.
So I built frame that behaves the same: strong spine, for drop off purple to catch shadow like experience, hand-woven crown that rises in concentric rhythm, small spirals placed like punctuation marks that steady the weight against the sternum, keeping the pendant warm, present, alive against skin.
Copper heats quickly when worn, faster than metal should, slower than emotion does, carrying pulse of body, holding warnth like old cathedrals store summer. The amethyst shifts with light’s temperament, offering new interiors each hour: small cosmos inside rearranging itself for the wearer alone.
My work is not a monument. It is a companion. A small, wearable philosophy built from stubborn metal and quiet crystal, forged to endure markets, weather, laughter, heavy days, and ordinary beauty.
Hand-woven. One of one. Made to witness life, not escape it.