That’s what I used to tell my parents when I left a restaurant with tips I didn’t earn. I couldn’t admit I’d taken them from the tables. So I called it found. Today, I am a very real finder. No longer of coins or shortcuts but of deeply worn wood, steel, stone. Materials shaped by time, weather, hands. Forgotten pieces with stories buried beneath the surface.
I’ve always been drawn to the raw beauty of old materials those that have lived through decades, maybe centuries. When I find them, I wonder:
Whose hands held this? What was its purpose? How long ago? Why?
This is old school art, born from the ground up.

Every piece I create starts with something found sometimes quickly, sometimes after years of searching. The work is slow, but that’s where the beauty lies: peeling back layers, revealing the soul of the object within.
Some pieces are hard to let go. They take so long to bring to life, they feel like family. But I’ve learned: once they’re finished, they’re ready. In good hands, they’ll go on to live new stories.

And that’s the only way their God-given beauty can be fully released.