Transforming pressed florals into heirloom jewelry and botanical art.
The Artist: Where imperfection becomes art.
The Process: Preserving what’s real, one petal at a time.
The Farm: From roots to bloom, a family’s quiet harvest.
I grew up with my toes in the dirt, in a yard that slowly became a garden, then a farmers’ market, then a small dairy full of goats and laughter. My mother pressed flowers between pages; my sister grew them into bouquets. I learned to listen — to color, to texture, to the way each bloom seems to whisper I was here. What I create now is bo
I grew up with my toes in the dirt, in a yard that slowly became a garden, then a farmers’ market, then a small dairy full of goats and laughter. My mother pressed flowers between pages; my sister grew them into bouquets. I learned to listen — to color, to texture, to the way each bloom seems to whisper I was here. What I create now is born from that same rhythm of tending and noticing. Every piece begins with a single stem that spoke to me — sometimes bright, sometimes fading — asking to be remembered. Pressing, framing, preserving… it’s not about perfection. It’s about pausing long enough to honor what still remains.
The Farm: From roots to bloom, a family’s quiet harvest.
The Process: Preserving what’s real, one petal at a time.
The Farm: From roots to bloom, a family’s quiet harvest.
The farm still hums with life. My sister runs her flower business on the land, and her floral shop in town is supplied almost entirely by what’s grown there.
My mom still lives on the property and works closely with my sister’s business — though these days, she keeps busy with her own passion project: pressing flowers for brides and creati
The farm still hums with life. My sister runs her flower business on the land, and her floral shop in town is supplied almost entirely by what’s grown there.
My mom still lives on the property and works closely with my sister’s business — though these days, she keeps busy with her own passion project: pressing flowers for brides and creating custom keepsakes that hold their stories in bloom.
I help out as needed, but my own nine-to-five keeps me busy. Still, my love for the land endures — and from what’s overlooked, I create. Bent stems, chewed petals, blooms gone soft — reminders that beauty doesn’t ask to be perfect, only seen.
The Process: Preserving what’s real, one petal at a time.
The Process: Preserving what’s real, one petal at a time.
The Process: Preserving what’s real, one petal at a time.
Every piece begins simply — with a bloom that spoke to me. Some come from the farm, some from the shop, and some from the forgotten corners of the fields I walk through. I press them flat, seal them in resin or frame, and give them a second life.
Many of the petals I use were once overlooked — too bruised, too bug-bitten, too bent for a bo
Every piece begins simply — with a bloom that spoke to me. Some come from the farm, some from the shop, and some from the forgotten corners of the fields I walk through. I press them flat, seal them in resin or frame, and give them a second life.
Many of the petals I use were once overlooked — too bruised, too bug-bitten, too bent for a bouquet. But those are the ones I love most. They remind me that beauty doesn’t vanish when it changes shape. It just finds a quieter way to stay.