Wood holds memory. Each piece I work with carries a history — of wind, rain, soil, and time — and in turning or carving it, I don’t erase that past, I interact with it. My work explores the tension between control and exploration: where the discipline of practiced technique meets the spontaneity of raw material.

Much of my inspiration comes from found woods — salvaged limbs, storm-felled trees, discarded offcuts. These pieces often arrive with irregularities: knots, bark, cracks, insect lines. Rather than remove or avoid these, I work with them. I’m drawn to the live edge, the asymmetry, the parts that remind us this isn’t just material — it was a living tree. There’s a kind of reverence in embracing that.

For me the lathe (and my workshop more broadly) is a space of dialogue. As I work the wood, I find connection — not just with the form emerging under my hands, but with generations of makers before me. I am the fourth generation to use my great-grandfather’s lathe, a tool that has supported over 90 years of craftsmanship. It is a direct link to the past, and through it, I feel a sense of continuity and tradition, a reminder that this craft has always been about more than just making — it’s about legacy.

Though woodworking has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember, for many years it existed alongside other jobs that allowed me to support a family. It wasn’t until later that I could fully commit to it, but in that time, I learned to appreciate the value of patience and persistence. Woodworking was never just a hobby; it was always a meditation, a practice that rooted me to my hands, the material, and joy of working with tools to make something both beautiful and useful.

My pieces are made to be used. A bowl should hold food, a cutting board used with knives, a bench should be sat on. Much like William Morris, I believe the functional objects in our lives deserve beauty — not as decoration, but as something that deepens over time. Wear and patina are not damage, but evidence of loving use.

My journey began in craft, and as I’ve grown, the boundary between craftsman and artist has blurred. I see my work now as a continual balance between technique and idea—between honing skill and refining design. Each object I make is an exploration, a conversation, a moment in a much longer story.

I hope some of this resonates with you – please explore the collections. If you like something that is no longer for sale, let me know and I’ll try to make something similar (but not the same; each piece has its own character and I am not trying to produce consistent replicas of anything).