Why?

Most of the time an object itself speaks more than the person who made it.

A polished edge reflects your face, but a rough weld reminds you someone’s hands were there, sanding, bending, doubting whether the angle was right. I’ve always liked that moment, when something built from logic starts to feel strangely emotional.

I think a lot about how things communicate with each other, not just shapes but ideas. A flat plane meets a curve, a clean mirror sits beside a surface that resists reflection. They argue a little, but that’s the point. Balance isn’t silence; it’s tension held before it’s not. That’s the reality I’m trying to lock in.
They carry small contradictions, calm yet heavy, industrial yet personal, perfect yet slightly off. They hold the same energy as a thought you can’t quite explain, the uncertainty feels like the first time you feel love, real but intangible.

When placed in a 3D space, they don’t shout for attention, they sit silently but loud. They catch light differently in the morning and at night, changing mood without even moving. And maybe, just maybe, that’s why I make them, not just to fill space but to forgive.

Because somewhere between logic and emotion, between the clean line and the dent that shouldn’t have happened, there’s a truth that feels human. Not perfect, but honest enough to stay.