Rings have always fascinated me. They are the kind of jewellery I wear every day. I collect them obsessively and if I visit somewhere I love, they are the souvenir I look for. But until now, I never made rings. For the past few months I’ve been perfecting techniques which basically involved hammering things beyond reason, doing something called “work hardening” and bathing it all in the sulphurs of hell.
Tiny enough to be carried across an ocean, rings are some of the only heirlooms I possess. The most sentimental of jewellery, the ring is also the most intimate. I have a large, antique emerald ring that once belonged to my Grandmother. She wore it constantly– washing the dishes in it along with everything else, and the long, vertical angles of the cut have been worn down, the stone frosted over with her daily labours. I have taken it to jewellers to get it sized to fit me and all have wanted to polish it. No way!
Perhaps because it was the first jewellery I loved– straight from the gum ball machine– nothing seems as perfect as these little circles for the fingers.
I have always made things with my hands– my whole life if I wasn’t making something, I didn’t really feel alive. It’s only now that I make my living at it. Here they are, my rings, from my hands to yours.