Most jewelers start with a design and then source stones to fit it. I work the other way around.
I travel to gemstone mines and gem-trading countries in South America, Africa, and Southeast Asia to source my own stones. I enjoy visiting actual mines, talking to the miners, and knowing where my gems come from. It's also the beginning of my thought process as to what I will do with a particular stone. Its story, the people that took it out of the ground, their struggles, their life. I want to honour them and give back to them as much as I can.
I value artisans over large corporations. I view myself as an aspiring artisan, although the bar in my mind is so high I may never reach the level of the craftsmen I admire.
When a gem arrives on my bench, I spend time with it. I study how it holds light at different angles, what colours emerge in morning sun versus candlelight, where its inclusions tell their geological story. The design grows from what the stone wants to be.
This isn't mysticism — it's respect. Every gemstone spent millions of years becoming what it is. The least I can do is listen before I set it in metal. If the centre stone could be swapped out without redesigning the entire piece, the design isn't finished.
Every piece that leaves my bench carries a set of signatures that are non-negotiable. They're not stylistic choices — they're the identity of the house. If a piece follows these principles, it belongs here. If it does not, it does not carry our name.
Single metal pieces are beautiful in their own way, but I prefer to build with two or sometimes even three metals within the same piece. There's a practical reason too — if you want to marry different pieces of jewelry on your hands, committing to a single metal colour becomes restrictive. I favour white gold or platinum alongside yellow gold, with rose gold used selectively for provocation and heat. The metals aren't decorative stripes — they map to the structural anatomy of the piece. Platinum where the metal restrains. Yellow gold where it asserts authority. Rose gold where it introduces tension. Crucially, each colour zone is conceived as a separately cast component, engineered to key into the next — assembly logic that shapes the design from the inside out. Every transition is intentional, not accidental.
Asymmetry is the house preference, not the exception. A perfectly mirrored composition can feel static; asymmetry gives a piece its pulse. But asymmetry without balance is just imbalance — so every composition is stabilised through counterweight, negative space, or local symmetry where it's needed. Movement must also have direction. Curves, sweeps, stone placements — if they create motion, that motion must lead somewhere and mean something. Movement without direction is noise.
Voids are not empty. They are one of the primary tools of the house — used to define mass through absence, let light enter, amplify apparent scale, and keep monumental volume from becoming heaviness. Under-galleries, open halos, split shanks, the air between thread bands: every void should frame mass, not merely remove it.
Presence requires architecture in more than one plane. Raised crowns, stepped halos, stacked structural zones, terraces of secondary stones — multiple vertical levels create shadow, hierarchy, and the sense that a piece has been built rather than drawn. Shadow is part of the design.
I love le serti invisible — it's a fantastic technique, and maybe one day I'll dare to use it. For now, I'm not quite brave enough, and if I'm honest, I also like to see prongs do the architectural work. So prongs in my pieces are never invisible supports — they're jeweled mechanisms. Ornate, often set with pear-shaped or marquise diamonds, each one oriented to direct the eye or suggest force. They function as claws, petals, or thorns depending on the mood of the piece. If no diamond-set prong is possible, light must still be brought to the focal stone through secondary stones in the halo. Generic claws are only acceptable if they can be easily abstracted.
The band is living structure. A single band is fine if the goal is minimalism, but my preference is to work with a minimum of three — a language that was born in the early 20th century with the Art Deco era. Three strands minimum, twisting, braiding, splitting, rejoining. Thickness varies because uniformity feels lifeless. From halfway down, the threads merge into a single organic resolution — a practical detail that allows for easy resizing, but also an aesthetic one. The band must feel anatomical. Alive. Tensile. Away from conventional shanks.
Strong geometry anchors every piece. Axial symmetry, structured halos, stepped framing. Baguettes and calibre-cut sapphires or onyx introduce discipline and linear authority. Even in baroque compositions, geometry must quietly hold the structure. Symmetry is a tool for balance — asymmetry is the ambition.
Halos are welcome but never generic. No standard pavé circles. I work with baguette halos, split halos, warped halos, mixed-cut halos, pear or marquise directional halos, double halos with hierarchy. A halo must feel designed — not applied.
Mass must breathe. Under-galleries and sides include airy filigree, lace-like piercing, fine milgrain, sculpted arches. The purpose is not nostalgia — it is structural lightness within monumental volume. Light must pass through.
I'm a great admirer of the Victorian and Art Nouveau era — that explosion of floral design was extraordinary, and the exploration of new materials like enamel and horn. I'm exploring the use of carved gemstone elements, and depending on the piece, I try to abstract nature rather than reproduce it: petal-shaped prongs, thorn-like supports, branching thread structures, organic curvature in halo transitions. Nature informs structure — it doesn't decorate it.
Uniform finish across a piece is forbidden. Contrast is mandatory: high polish beside brushed, matte beside gloss, slight patina beside sharp reflection. Finish reinforces structure — where it grips, where it slides, where it protects, where it pulls. No square edges. Everything organic, rounded, smooth. Edges may be imperfect — but always intentional.
Every piece I design lives in a deliberate tension: refined beside raw, polish beside abrasion, glamour with bite. Monumental presence with intimate detail. Grit with seduction. Heritage disrupted. Power without apology. This tension is the soul of the work — and it mirrors the tension in the people who wear it. We are all multiple things at once. The jewelry should be too.
The piece should enter the room before the wearer speaks.
Every design you see on this website begins the way jewellery design has always begun: with a stone, a conversation, and a sketch. From there, my process reaches forward into the tools available today — and I make no apology for that. The obligation is to the client, not to nostalgia.
I start with the stone. Once I understand what it wants — its colour temperature, how it holds light, what proportions respect its character — I move to 2D concept work: hand sketching or computer-aided drawing, sometimes both. The sketch is the design intention. Everything that follows is in service of communicating that intention as clearly as possible.
From those sketches, design notes, original stone photography, and a detailed set of house design rules, I generate rendered visualisations. These are not photographs of finished pieces — they are precise, high-fidelity concept renders that show how a commission will look, behave in light, and feel as a composition. I then feed that rendered design into further tools to produce front, side, top, and isometric views. Occasionally I use video generation to show how a piece might appear worn — around a finger, at a wrist, against a décolletage — always with the understanding that these are visualisation tools, not finished goods.
Throughout this process I also draw on an extensive personal library of vintage and antique pieces — particularly from the Belle Époque, Art Nouveau, and Art Deco periods — to understand how particular design problems have been solved before. Not to reproduce, but to learn. History is a resource, not a constraint.
The renders on this website are design proposals, not finished photographs. They are honest representations of intent — built from real stones, real sketches, and precise design rules — but the finished piece will be handcrafted in metal and stone, and no render fully anticipates the warmth of gold under natural light, or the way a particular stone catches fire at four in the afternoon.
What you are commissioning is the thinking behind the render: the stone selection, the architectural logic, the house signatures. The technology exists to give you the clearest possible picture of that thinking before a single gram of metal is cast. It reduces misunderstanding, shortens the feedback cycle, and — frankly — allows a small independent atelier to compete with the communication standards of houses ten times its size.
I use every tool available to deliver better design, better clarity, and better value. That has always been the position of serious craft — and it always will be.
Tell me what you're drawn to and let's design something that's unmistakably yours.
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