October

Salvaged maple from a kitchen countertop in East Atlanta. The wood had already lived one domestic life before this one.

Fall, 2020. I was sitting in a park in Atlanta watching something end. It wasn't over yet; but...it was. October leaves were coming down in the golden hour breeze, doing what leaves do when the season turns: letting go with the kind of grace nobody asks for and everybody notices far too late.

I walked home and put the maple on the lathe. A square bowl with a gentle curve. The plan was simple - until the gouge caught and took part of the rim with it. A clean removal; the kind of damage that looks intentional if you don't know better.

Rather than burn it or sand it into something safe, I picked up a rasp and started following the break. Worked the rim until each corner curled upward into a point. Until the shape stopped being a bowl with damage and became a leaf in the middle of falling. Somewhere in the turning, a knot came through the center and opened a void I never planned. I left it. The piece was already about things that open up while you're trying to hold a shape together.

Linseed oil and beeswax, left matte. Nothing about this piece wanted to shine. It just wanted to land.