Evenings in my Garden

I especially love the hour before it gets dark. Everything seems to slow down. The garden becomes quiet and peaceful, the light gets softer, and the last mosquitoes are still dancing above the table. I like sitting here and looking at the things around me: a plate beside a small bowl, bread, fruit, an old glass, one of my wooden pieces. In the studio, I think about the shape of these objects, the grain of the wood, the small irregularities, how they feel in the hand. Here, I simply use them. The knife lies beside the bread, a glass rests on the wood, and the objects become part of an ordinary evening.

Perhaps this is where the real life of a handmade object begins. Not when I finish making it, but when it becomes part of someone’s everyday life. I like things that don’t ask for attention, but quietly settle into their surroundings. Things that can be touched, used, moved around, and slowly gather traces of the moments they have been part of.

As the light fades, there is less and less to see. A few plates, some wood, crumbs, empty glasses. I love this moment, when everything feels calm and unhurried — and for a little while, everything is exactly where it should be.