I grew up in a tiny hamlet in the endless prairies of Alberta, Canada. I was the only daughter of the most practical father one could imagine. My dad fled Hungary and Soviet occupation when he was only 12. After time alone in an Austrian refugee camp, he joined extended family in Canada. His early experiences led to a life of deep practicality and conservation, always simplifying and conserving. My childhood was one of simple, happy memories, but my dad had little patience for art. Art was not an essential need.
My mom was a voracious reader, and on our trips to the city bookstore, we would detour to the fabric shop and buy crisp ribbon or beads for a new creation. I would watch my grandmother patiently cut her paper toile projects and marvel at how she translated layers of flat paper photos into three-dimensional delicate art. She showed me how something flat can be built up and given strength and depth, and I always think of that in my glasswork.
I struggled to balance their maternal creative influence and my dad’s practicality. Despite a desire to attend an arts college, I not surprisingly chose a more suitable degree. I filled my electives with creative options and dove into my studies of art history and mythology. I fell in love with a man who had an equal desire to travel, and together we spent every summer and a decade thereafter living out of backpacks in over a dozen countries, each introducing me to new artisans and architectural lines.
Despite my art history studies, I wasn’t prepared for The Annunciation startling me at the top of a convent staircase in Florence, the colors and texture immediately imprinting my memories. I had imagined that art of this consequence must be kept behind untouchable luscious red velvet ropes, yet there it was, its crackled colorful plaster directly in front of me. I realized art should not be limited to gallery pedestals but soaked in, lived in. This draws me to create pieces that invite careful study but are also made to be used, touched, worn and appreciated as their patina ages.
After years of struggling to justify art as essential work, I have finally found my unapologetic voice. I am an artist, and it’s how I process and translate the world. I am self-taught with no formal training but have been playing with glass for almost two decades. I have always been a creative mess maker, dabbling in almost every medium imaginable, but my love affair is with glass.
Stained glass is born from architectural contours and fiery industrial processes. Creating glass requires unique materials, intense heat and sweltering chemical reactions. Many of the art glass manufacturers are closing their doors, and inventory and supplies are expensive or running scarce. Along with others in the glass community, my hope is that by coercing a traditional medium into modern pieces, the craft will survive and evolve. I am a sucker for the shimmer of machine-rolled iridescent glass, but I also love to build with vintage or mouth-blown glass.
I am constantly scouring classified ads, closing studios and salvage yards. The textures, imperfections and character of vintage glass lends an immediate sense of history to my work.
My most precious stock is a breathtaking window recovered from a 200-year-old burnt-down church in New England. I like to think it has absorbed generations of celebration and loss, light and darkness. There is something special about reimagining a broken, ash-covered piece and giving it renewed clarity and light.
As I carefully deconstruct it, I am struck by the imperfections. Cracks are simply worked with; the design leans asymmetrical, and there is a beautiful mix of wildly varying widths and textures. It is a visual history that has taught me imperfections are beautiful marks of handcraftsmanship and only lend to its story.
The Process
I create using the Louis C. Tiffany copper-foil method — a painstaking, centuries-old hand-cut process patented in the late 1800s. A custom pattern is drawn, glass is selected and individually hand scored, then snapped apart with running pliers or nipped with grozing pliers and carefully ground to refine the shape. The edges of each piece are wrapped in copper foil, burnished smooth, tacked tightly and soldered together with leaded or lead-free solder at 410F. The piece then goes through multiple stages of patina, cleaning and waxing. It’s a slow and tedious process but will stand for generations.
Glass has a mind of its own and wants to take easy straight cuts to the edge. You have to apply even pressure, score with gentle curves and listen to what it tells you. Working with glass forces me to slow down, be present and work carefully.
“Everything you can imagine is real.”
— PABLO PICASSO
My friends and family helped me renovate a dilapidated tool shed and turn it into my dream studio. Almost everything in our home and studio is upcycled, faux painted, glassed or found at consignment stores. The dingy tool shed is now a beautiful studio space with a colorful mural (by Adam Murillo) and salvaged French doors that let the light in. It makes me happy to give used items new life, and I lose hours in my studio. My adopted pup, Sasha, loves it, too, but for safety reasons, she only gets to hang out with me there on patterning days.
It’s also essential to wear the proper protective gear when dealing with solder fumes, glass dust and chemical patinas during the creation process. Glass cutting can be messy and dangerous, but it is also the best form of meditation I have ever found. I love to build three-dimensional works, whether a blooming glass succulent wall or a laced garden-gate corset belt. Finding techniques to build things that should not be made from glass is exhilarating. Translating an inflexible medium into a fluid wearable piece presents both safety and engineering challenges, but it’s an exciting task.
I set out as part glass artist and part cobbler to find a way to create real, stained-glass heels inspired by the architectural buttresses of Italian churches. After trial and error and too many trips to the hardware store, I was able to create functional heels that let light shine through, and they are one of my favorite things to wear.
The benefit of being self-taught is that I may not build and pattern within the traditional constraints of glasswork, and I’m OK with that. My relationship with glass is a constant evolution, and I find ways to include it in many aspects of my life. I love the shifting properties of glass, how it morphs at every angle and changes throughout the day, depending on the fading sunlight or angle of view.
I have put glass on everything from surfboards to staircases. Our dinner table is a 10-foot-long live-edge slab from a fallen cedar. It took me weeks to peel down its bark and sand it to a smooth finish. I didn’t want to dismiss the chainsaw marks and jagged grooves, so I shaped blue iridescent glass into its knots and gouges. The mix of organic wood and shimmering glass makes a meal feel whimsical. Glass doesn’t have to be a flat panel or light fixture — it can bring warmth and design to every experience in your life.
I am the founder of an heirloom line of stained-glass clutches that can be displayed or carried as a functional illuminated accessory. Architecture, fantasy and fierce mythological women often inspire my pieces. One of my most intricate bags is “Medusa,” featuring over 400 hand-cut deep green and black opalescent snakeskin scales. I am also working on a “Shattered Ceilings” series of clutches to honor groundbreaking women.
Glass is born from fire and flames, and the materials live through such a scorching and dramatic origin — but still evolve to create something beautiful. I think that is an important metaphor that a woman can carry with her.
My work is reinforced but not indestructible. My pieces are still delicate and must be handled and cared for accordingly. Glass does crack. I’m so comfortable handling glass, I forget that others may be nervous about carrying a piece.
I also worry that the downside of pulling an architectural medium into a personal space is that it bears the marks of an industrial process and cannot be as refined as a jeweler’s work. But, as the salvaged window has taught me, that only reminds me that each piece is unique and one of a kind.
A collaboration with Julia Hillier, Succulentartworks.com
What’s Ahead
I’m an introvert at heart but I am learning to put myself out there. I have had the honor of showing in California galleries and was also featured on “Meet Your Makers Showdown” — the first-ever stained-glass reality show competition. It was one of the most intense experiences of my life and was a huge lesson in stepping out of my comfort zone. I battled professional glassers to create under intense pressure, and it was an exciting reminder to keep pushing forward.
In that mindset, I would love to explore more mediums to mix with glasswork, and it would be a dream to light up a clutch on the red carpet one day.
I haven’t had much luck convincing people that glass can be on a runway — but there’s still time.
The Journey
I grew up in a tiny hamlet in the endless prairies of Alberta, Canada. I was the only daughter of the most practical father one could imagine. My dad fled Hungary and Soviet occupation when he was only 12. After time alone in an Austrian refugee camp, he joined extended family in Canada. His early experiences led to a life of deep practicality and conservation, always simplifying and conserving. My childhood was one of simple, happy memories, but my dad had little patience for art. Art was not an essential need.
My mom was a voracious reader, and on our trips to the city bookstore, we would detour to the fabric shop and buy crisp ribbon or beads for a new creation. I would watch my grandmother patiently cut her paper toile projects and marvel at how she translated layers of flat paper photos into three-dimensional delicate art. She showed me how something flat can be built up and given strength and depth, and I always think of that in my glasswork.
I struggled to balance their maternal creative influence and my dad’s practicality. Despite a desire to attend an arts college, I not surprisingly chose a more suitable degree. I filled my electives with creative options and dove into my studies of art history and mythology. I fell in love with a man who had an equal desire to travel, and together we spent every summer and a decade thereafter living out of backpacks in over a dozen countries, each introducing me to new artisans and architectural lines.
Despite my art history studies, I wasn’t prepared for The Annunciation startling me at the top of a convent staircase in Florence, the colors and texture immediately imprinting my memories. I had imagined that art of this consequence must be kept behind untouchable luscious red velvet ropes, yet there it was, its crackled colorful plaster directly in front of me. I realized art should not be limited to gallery pedestals but soaked in, lived in. This draws me to create pieces that invite careful study but are also made to be used, touched, worn and appreciated as their patina ages.
After years of struggling to justify art as essential work, I have finally found my unapologetic voice. I am an artist, and it’s how I process and translate the world. I am self-taught with no formal training but have been playing with glass for almost two decades. I have always been a creative mess maker, dabbling in almost every medium imaginable, but my love affair is with glass.
Stained glass is born from architectural contours and fiery industrial processes. Creating glass requires unique materials, intense heat and sweltering chemical reactions. Many of the art glass manufacturers are closing their doors, and inventory and supplies are expensive or running scarce. Along with others in the glass community, my hope is that by coercing a traditional medium into modern pieces, the craft will survive and evolve. I am a sucker for the shimmer of machine-rolled iridescent glass, but I also love to build with vintage or mouth-blown glass.
I am constantly scouring classified ads, closing studios and salvage yards. The textures, imperfections and character of vintage glass lends an immediate sense of history to my work.
My most precious stock is a breathtaking window recovered from a 200-year-old burnt-down church in New England. I like to think it has absorbed generations of celebration and loss, light and darkness. There is something special about reimagining a broken, ash-covered piece and giving it renewed clarity and light.
As I carefully deconstruct it, I am struck by the imperfections. Cracks are simply worked with; the design leans asymmetrical, and there is a beautiful mix of wildly varying widths and textures. It is a visual history that has taught me imperfections are beautiful marks of handcraftsmanship and only lend to its story.
The Process
I create using the Louis C. Tiffany copper-foil method — a painstaking, centuries-old hand-cut process patented in the late 1800s. A custom pattern is drawn, glass is selected and individually hand scored, then snapped apart with running pliers or nipped with grozing pliers and carefully ground to refine the shape. The edges of each piece are wrapped in copper foil, burnished smooth, tacked tightly and soldered together with leaded or lead-free solder at 410F. The piece then goes through multiple stages of patina, cleaning and waxing. It’s a slow and tedious process but will stand for generations.
Glass has a mind of its own and wants to take easy straight cuts to the edge. You have to apply even pressure, score with gentle curves and listen to what it tells you. Working with glass forces me to slow down, be present and work carefully.
“Everything you can imagine is real.”
— PABLO PICASSO
My friends and family helped me renovate a dilapidated tool shed and turn it into my dream studio. Almost everything in our home and studio is upcycled, faux painted, glassed or found at consignment stores. The dingy tool shed is now a beautiful studio space with a colorful mural (by Adam Murillo) and salvaged French doors that let the light in. It makes me happy to give used items new life, and I lose hours in my studio. My adopted pup, Sasha, loves it, too, but for safety reasons, she only gets to hang out with me there on patterning days.
It’s also essential to wear the proper protective gear when dealing with solder fumes, glass dust and chemical patinas during the creation process. Glass cutting can be messy and dangerous, but it is also the best form of meditation I have ever found. I love to build three-dimensional works, whether a blooming glass succulent wall or a laced garden-gate corset belt. Finding techniques to build things that should not be made from glass is exhilarating. Translating an inflexible medium into a fluid wearable piece presents both safety and engineering challenges, but it’s an exciting task.
I set out as part glass artist and part cobbler to find a way to create real, stained-glass heels inspired by the architectural buttresses of Italian churches. After trial and error and too many trips to the hardware store, I was able to create functional heels that let light shine through, and they are one of my favorite things to wear.
The benefit of being self-taught is that I may not build and pattern within the traditional constraints of glasswork, and I’m OK with that. My relationship with glass is a constant evolution, and I find ways to include it in many aspects of my life. I love the shifting properties of glass, how it morphs at every angle and changes throughout the day, depending on the fading sunlight or angle of view.
I have put glass on everything from surfboards to staircases. Our dinner table is a 10-foot-long live-edge slab from a fallen cedar. It took me weeks to peel down its bark and sand it to a smooth finish. I didn’t want to dismiss the chainsaw marks and jagged grooves, so I shaped blue iridescent glass into its knots and gouges. The mix of organic wood and shimmering glass makes a meal feel whimsical. Glass doesn’t have to be a flat panel or light fixture — it can bring warmth and design to every experience in your life.
I am the founder of an heirloom line of stained-glass clutches that can be displayed or carried as a functional illuminated accessory. Architecture, fantasy and fierce mythological women often inspire my pieces. One of my most intricate bags is “Medusa,” featuring over 400 hand-cut deep green and black opalescent snakeskin scales. I am also working on a “Shattered Ceilings” series of clutches to honor groundbreaking women.
Glass is born from fire and flames, and the materials live through such a scorching and dramatic origin — but still evolve to create something beautiful. I think that is an important metaphor that a woman can carry with her.
My work is reinforced but not indestructible. My pieces are still delicate and must be handled and cared for accordingly. Glass does crack. I’m so comfortable handling glass, I forget that others may be nervous about carrying a piece.
I also worry that the downside of pulling an architectural medium into a personal space is that it bears the marks of an industrial process and cannot be as refined as a jeweler’s work. But, as the salvaged window has taught me, that only reminds me that each piece is unique and one of a kind.
A collaboration with Julia Hillier, Succulentartworks.com
What’s Ahead
I’m an introvert at heart but I am learning to put myself out there. I have had the honor of showing in California galleries and was also featured on “Meet Your Makers Showdown” — the first-ever stained-glass reality show competition. It was one of the most intense experiences of my life and was a huge lesson in stepping out of my comfort zone. I battled professional glassers to create under intense pressure, and it was an exciting reminder to keep pushing forward.
In that mindset, I would love to explore more mediums to mix with glasswork, and it would be a dream to light up a clutch on the red carpet one day.
I haven’t had much luck convincing people that glass can be on a runway — but there’s still time.
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The Journey
I grew up in a tiny hamlet in the endless prairies of Alberta, Canada. I was the only daughter of the most practical father one could imagine. My dad fled Hungary and Soviet occupation when he was only 12. After time alone in an Austrian refugee camp, he joined extended family in Canada. His early experiences led to a life of deep practicality and conservation, always simplifying and conserving. My childhood was one of simple, happy memories, but my dad had little patience for art. Art was not an essential need.
My mom was a voracious reader, and on our trips to the city bookstore, we would detour to the fabric shop and buy crisp ribbon or beads for a new creation. I would watch my grandmother patiently cut her paper toile projects and marvel at how she translated layers of flat paper photos into three-dimensional delicate art. She showed me how something flat can be built up and given strength and depth, and I always think of that in my glasswork.
I struggled to balance their maternal creative influence and my dad’s practicality. Despite a desire to attend an arts college, I not surprisingly chose a more suitable degree. I filled my electives with creative options and dove into my studies of art history and mythology. I fell in love with a man who had an equal desire to travel, and together we spent every summer and a decade thereafter living out of backpacks in over a dozen countries, each introducing me to new artisans and architectural lines.
Despite my art history studies, I wasn’t prepared for The Annunciation startling me at the top of a convent staircase in Florence, the colors and texture immediately imprinting my memories. I had imagined that art of this consequence must be kept behind untouchable luscious red velvet ropes, yet there it was, its crackled colorful plaster directly in front of me. I realized art should not be limited to gallery pedestals but soaked in, lived in. This draws me to create pieces that invite careful study but are also made to be used, touched, worn and appreciated as their patina ages.
After years of struggling to justify art as essential work, I have finally found my unapologetic voice. I am an artist, and it’s how I process and translate the world. I am self-taught with no formal training but have been playing with glass for almost two decades. I have always been a creative mess maker, dabbling in almost every medium imaginable, but my love affair is with glass.
Stained glass is born from architectural contours and fiery industrial processes. Creating glass requires unique materials, intense heat and sweltering chemical reactions. Many of the art glass manufacturers are closing their doors, and inventory and supplies are expensive or running scarce. Along with others in the glass community, my hope is that by coercing a traditional medium into modern pieces, the craft will survive and evolve. I am a sucker for the shimmer of machine-rolled iridescent glass, but I also love to build with vintage or mouth-blown glass.
I am constantly scouring classified ads, closing studios and salvage yards. The textures, imperfections and character of vintage glass lends an immediate sense of history to my work.
My most precious stock is a breathtaking window recovered from a 200-year-old burnt-down church in New England. I like to think it has absorbed generations of celebration and loss, light and darkness. There is something special about reimagining a broken, ash-covered piece and giving it renewed clarity and light.
As I carefully deconstruct it, I am struck by the imperfections. Cracks are simply worked with; the design leans asymmetrical, and there is a beautiful mix of wildly varying widths and textures. It is a visual history that has taught me imperfections are beautiful marks of handcraftsmanship and only lend to its story.
The Process
I create using the Louis C. Tiffany copper-foil method — a painstaking, centuries-old hand-cut process patented in the late 1800s. A custom pattern is drawn, glass is selected and individually hand scored, then snapped apart with running pliers or nipped with grozing pliers and carefully ground to refine the shape. The edges of each piece are wrapped in copper foil, burnished smooth, tacked tightly and soldered together with leaded or lead-free solder at 410F. The piece then goes through multiple stages of patina, cleaning and waxing. It’s a slow and tedious process but will stand for generations.
Glass has a mind of its own and wants to take easy straight cuts to the edge. You have to apply even pressure, score with gentle curves and listen to what it tells you. Working with glass forces me to slow down, be present and work carefully.
“Everything you can imagine is real.”
— PABLO PICASSO
My friends and family helped me renovate a dilapidated tool shed and turn it into my dream studio. Almost everything in our home and studio is upcycled, faux painted, glassed or found at consignment stores. The dingy tool shed is now a beautiful studio space with a colorful mural (by Adam Murillo) and salvaged French doors that let the light in. It makes me happy to give used items new life, and I lose hours in my studio. My adopted pup, Sasha, loves it, too, but for safety reasons, she only gets to hang out with me there on patterning days.
It’s also essential to wear the proper protective gear when dealing with solder fumes, glass dust and chemical patinas during the creation process. Glass cutting can be messy and dangerous, but it is also the best form of meditation I have ever found. I love to build three-dimensional works, whether a blooming glass succulent wall or a laced garden-gate corset belt. Finding techniques to build things that should not be made from glass is exhilarating. Translating an inflexible medium into a fluid wearable piece presents both safety and engineering challenges, but it’s an exciting task.
I set out as part glass artist and part cobbler to find a way to create real, stained-glass heels inspired by the architectural buttresses of Italian churches. After trial and error and too many trips to the hardware store, I was able to create functional heels that let light shine through, and they are one of my favorite things to wear.
The benefit of being self-taught is that I may not build and pattern within the traditional constraints of glasswork, and I’m OK with that. My relationship with glass is a constant evolution, and I find ways to include it in many aspects of my life. I love the shifting properties of glass, how it morphs at every angle and changes throughout the day, depending on the fading sunlight or angle of view.
I have put glass on everything from surfboards to staircases. Our dinner table is a 10-foot-long live-edge slab from a fallen cedar. It took me weeks to peel down its bark and sand it to a smooth finish. I didn’t want to dismiss the chainsaw marks and jagged grooves, so I shaped blue iridescent glass into its knots and gouges. The mix of organic wood and shimmering glass makes a meal feel whimsical. Glass doesn’t have to be a flat panel or light fixture — it can bring warmth and design to every experience in your life.
I am the founder of an heirloom line of stained-glass clutches that can be displayed or carried as a functional illuminated accessory. Architecture, fantasy and fierce mythological women often inspire my pieces. One of my most intricate bags is “Medusa,” featuring over 400 hand-cut deep green and black opalescent snakeskin scales. I am also working on a “Shattered Ceilings” series of clutches to honor groundbreaking women.
Glass is born from fire and flames, and the materials live through such a scorching and dramatic origin — but still evolve to create something beautiful. I think that is an important metaphor that a woman can carry with her.
My work is reinforced but not indestructible. My pieces are still delicate and must be handled and cared for accordingly. Glass does crack. I’m so comfortable handling glass, I forget that others may be nervous about carrying a piece.
I also worry that the downside of pulling an architectural medium into a personal space is that it bears the marks of an industrial process and cannot be as refined as a jeweler’s work. But, as the salvaged window has taught me, that only reminds me that each piece is unique and one of a kind.
A collaboration with Julia Hillier, Succulentartworks.com
What’s Ahead
I’m an introvert at heart but I am learning to put myself out there. I have had the honor of showing in California galleries and was also featured on “Meet Your Makers Showdown” — the first-ever stained-glass reality show competition. It was one of the most intense experiences of my life and was a huge lesson in stepping out of my comfort zone. I battled professional glassers to create under intense pressure, and it was an exciting reminder to keep pushing forward.
In that mindset, I would love to explore more mediums to mix with glasswork, and it would be a dream to light up a clutch on the red carpet one day.
I haven’t had much luck convincing people that glass can be on a runway — but there’s still time.
The Women Create Foundation is a catalyst for small but significant strides to empower women creators through grants that help bring projects to life and foster innovation.
