A Small Crab’s Salute

There’s a small porcelain crab on my desk who salutes me every morning. One claw up, stance wide, absolutely committed to the salute. I never expected him to become a studio companion, but here we are — a tiny crustacean reminding me to look up, breathe, and begin.

This morning, while dusting my shelves, I picked him up again — this tiny porcelain character who has been saluting me for years — and I found myself wondering about the artist who made him. Maybe they had a military background, as do I, because there’s something about a proper salute that speaks differently to those of us who’ve lived inside that world. It’s a gesture that carries weight, memory, and a kind of quiet respect.

That thought stayed with me because my own work has been shifting in a meaningful way.
For the first several years of my jewelry practice, I made pieces that resembled the jewelry I wore in corporate America. Some of those pieces I loved, some I didn’t — but I always thought, “Someone might like this.” I was making work that felt familiar, safe, and broadly appealing.

Lately, that has changed.

My work is more focused now, more aligned with the materials and rhythms that speak to me. Chainmaille isn’t universal, and it doesn’t need to be. The people who connect with its structure, strength, and quiet intricacy will find something meaningful in what I make.
I’m no longer trying to create jewelry that everyone will love.

I’m creating art for the people who feel at home in the uniqueness and resilience of chainmaille — the ones who see what I see.

Maybe that’s what the crab’s artist hoped for too: that somewhere, someone would pick up their small creation one morning and feel a spark of recognition. A sense of “Ah. This was made for someone like me.”