I have always been drawn to metal for this reason, as it responds:
Under force, it moves.
Under touch, it yields.
Under attention, it transforms.
It does not remain static, it records.
Every mark tells a story. Every change in tone is a kind of conversation, between the metal, my hands, and everything around it. Working with metal isn’t about forcing it into shape. It’s about listening, feeling, adjusting, learning as you go.
My metal speaks in its own way, through tension, through tiny shifts in colour, through its weight. It teaches patience, it teaches me to respect it.
A Moment in the Studio
When I was shaping the complex intersecting arcs of a nautilus shell, sometimes the metal speaks in ways I don't expect. Every curve had its own tension, and every strike of the hammer felt like, I suppose a small conversation. As I worked, the arcs shifted under the force, the copper changed in colour where it stretched, and I learned to really listen to the forming of a curve, to the beauty of the metal, to its memory.
In that moment, the design wasn’t just mine. It became a collaboration. The colour, the subtle shifts, the tiny imperfections, all of these things became part of the story. Time had already started leaving its mark even as I finished my work.
Against the Culture of the Image
In a culture obsessed with images, flattened and compressed on platforms like Instagram, design or art is often judged at the moment of completion. The photograph becomes the final measure of value.
But a material is not complete at installation, It begins.
A polished surface may photograph beautifully, It reflects light cleanly, It appears flawless. But a patinated surface tells a longer story. It absorbs touch, It evolves with its environment, Yes to me it becomes specific to its place.
Allowing Time to Participate
I don’t design or create to freeze time. I design and create to let time participate.
A home, like a sculpture, should not resist aging. It should welcome it. Materials should not fight their environment; they should converse with it.
Light moves across a metal surface one way in winter and another in summer, different in daylight than at night. Over time, hands will quietly polish certain edges. The air will deepen some tones and soften others.
Those changes aren’t accidents; they’re a collaboration between the material and the life around it. What endures isn’t what stays the same, what endures is what transforms with dignity.
Time leaves marks, and in the right material those marks aren’t scars, they’re the work itself.
Richard