“The Leaf That Dreamt in Colour”

There are moments at the workbench when the light hits just right—when copper whispers, not crackles, under the tension of your pliers, and a gem seems to pulse with stories untold. This piece was born in such a moment, somewhere between fatigue and reverie.

I found myself wraping this aurora opal doublet as dusk fell against the studio window, the skies outside darkening into ink, and yet this stone—this unassuming, fractured miracle—held an entire sunrise within. Every movement of the copper wire felt like stitching a secret into time. I shaped it not with certainty, but with something closer to surrender.

The leaf above the stone is no arbitrary flourish—it came to me in a dream, a memory of a fig tree in my grandmother’s yard where I once hid as a child, lost in books too large for my hands. The leaf reminds me that art, like memory, bends and curls, never truly leaving.

This isn’t just a pendant. It’s a quiet rebellion against the forgettable, a talisman for the observer, for the listener, for the one who wears intention like armor. It gleams, yes—but not with the bluster of perfection. Rather, it flickers like thought, or like water disturbed by wind. That, to me, is beauty.

—crafted with patience and a bit of melancholy, from my bench in Ballarat