I do not build to decorate. I build to remember.

 My work is an act of preservation — not just of form, but of feeling. I am not a sculptor of machines; I am a custodian of memory. Every weaved vintage car I create is not an object, but a relational artifact — something that carries the stillness of time, the intimacy of hands, and the silence of forgotten stories.

I work with paper because it is humble, honest, and mortal.
I roll it into pipes because I believe that fragility, when aligned with intention, becomes strength.
I weave because I do not like to rush.
Because legacy should not be built in a hurry.

Each part I shape — bonnet, wheel, headlight, door — is handcrafted, not copied. No two parts are alike. No two relics are repeatable. And that’s intentional.
In a world obsessed with mass production, I stand for the singular, the soulful, and the slow.

I do not use machines. I do not delegate the work.
Everything I offer has passed through my fingertips, my thoughts, and my silence.

My background as a diamond grader informs my discipline. It has taught me that light has its own language — that details, even the invisible ones, are what determine truth.
And truth, to me, is the only luxury worth preserving.

I document my inner landscape in Relic Diaries, where I translate process into poetry — not because I expect to be understood, but because I hope to be felt.

In the end, I create so that time has a body.
A body woven by hands, blessed by patience, and touched by memory.