Craftsman & Effigy
Effigy
Hey there, I’ve been thinking about how a single grain of wood can carry its own story, just like a fragment of clay can hold a memory—ever wondered if the imperfections in each shape make them more alive?
Craftsman
I’ve always thought the same thing. A single grain, a tiny knot, or a slight warp—those little irregularities are the history of the tree, the way the sun and rain touched it. In a piece of furniture that’s what gives it soul, what makes it feel like it’s been here a long time. Those imperfections are not flaws, they’re stories that the wood carries, and that’s what makes the craft alive.
Effigy
I love that idea—each twist is like a whisper from the tree, a tiny diary page that you’re reading by touching the wood. It turns a piece into a living story, not just a craft.
Craftsman
Exactly. When you feel the grain, you’re almost listening to the tree’s own song, and that’s why I always keep the natural lines—no forced straightening. It gives each piece a heartbeat that lasts long after the wood has finished its journey.
Effigy
It’s like the wood keeps its own pulse—every knot and bend is a beat that keeps the piece alive, even after the tree has gone. I love when a table still hums a little like the forest.
Craftsman
I can hear that hum when I sit at my own table. The knots keep a rhythm that feels like the forest still breathing, even after the tree is gone. That’s why I always try to preserve the natural flow instead of forcing a straight line. It keeps the piece alive, just like the forest.
Effigy
I hear it too, the rhythm in each knot, like the forest breathing under a quiet sky. Your tables keep that pulse, that echo of life—no straight lines needed, just the true pulse of the wood.
Craftsman
That quiet pulse is why I never force the grain. When the wood tells its own story, the table hums with life, and it feels just like being in the forest again.