Growing amongst artists & artisans and the meaning of jewelry making
There’s still this thought from a few years ago that echoes in me… “I can’t stand telling people: buy my jewelry so you can wear it to this or that event.” I realize now just how deeply the idea of offering something ephemeral used to disturb me. When I was creating gold-plated, low-priced jewelry, I couldn’t find my signature, my “reasons to sell,” or any real “marketing angle.” It drove me crazy to try to sell something that felt frivolous. Non-essential. Non-lasting.
More recently, I’ve been reconnecting with my roots. Having moved to the United States — far from my loved ones, and with only a few belongings I was able to bring — I’ve started to understand what was truly going on inside me.
On my last trip, my father gave me an African stool he’d had at home for as long as I can remember. A stool he would sit on every time we had guests, to light the fireplace or enjoy an apéritif. A low stool, which reminds me of sitting close to the ground — like in certain African moments or maybe even Japanese traditions. When he gave me that gift, I nearly cried. For everything that little stool represents to me. For all the memories it holds.
He also gave me a piece of art that had been hanging in his dining room for years — a piece I love. A piece that, I’ll admit, was covered in the dust of daily life, since we didn’t really dust it off. A frameless piece, made on kraft paper. A few strokes of charcoal and pastel, depicting a chair. We carefully rolled it up, and I carried it under my arm during the 14-hour flight back to my home in the US. The stool in my suitcase, the artwork under my arm — I felt like I had come home. The richest person in the world — in meaning.
When I hung the drawing and placed the stool beside my own fire, I felt moved. Every day, they’re here with me. And suddenly, my father — who hasn’t yet visited my home — is here too. In one way or another.
As I reflect on the meaning these objects carry, I finally understand why I can’t see jewelry as a simple accessory. I grew up in a family, in a world, where we chose our bowls, our forks, our cushions, our paintings, our clothes, our objects — not hastily, not for short-term use, not because they were cheap — but because they meant something to us. Because we found them in that little shop our cousin showed us. Or they were gifted — yes, by Grandma’s friend. Or we made them ourselves, inherited them, searched for them for months and finally found them — handmade by an artisan who poured their heart into them.
Saturday May 10th 2025
