Beneath the Oak Designs

A reflective look at a handmade wire tree that challenged my creative process, inviting me to embrace negative space, trust intuition, and let nature-inspired art evolve naturally. Every so often, a piece comes along that quietly asks more questions than it answers. This tree is one of those pieces. At first glance, it’s clearly different from my current collection. The colors are familiar — gold and blue, two tones I’ve always loved — but the feeling is new. The left side is full of movement and detail: blooming wire flowers, twisting branches, and a trunk that feels alive with motion. And then there’s the right side… open, airy, almost untouched. My first instinct was to fix it. I kept asking myself what was missing. Should I add more branches? Balance it out? Fill the space so it matched the rest of the tree? I even started imagining additions — a wire dragonfly drifting through the open space, a delicate moon hugging the hoop, maybe even a soft sun shape in complementary tones. Bu...

 I am trying my hand at wire dragonflies.  I am trying to figure out another way to create the wings. Should I bead them or decorate them with wire wrapping? I do not claim to know a thing about resin so that is out! I really have a hard time with the wings. I have tried making the head and body first and attaching the wings after, however I haven't figured out how to do that without making a mess.  Instead, I've made these using one piece of 17g aluminum wire. I love working with aluminum, as it is soft and pliable. The only downfall to this is stability.  They are relatively easy to make and can be disassembled if I'm unsatisfied with the turn out. I have made large ones (bigger than the photos here) that include moon charms and hangers.  I'd really like to learn how to make wire fairies. That will be my next project. In the meantime, I am working on a new tree (blue and gold)  ___________________________________________________________________________ 💥...

 2025 was… a lot. It was a year of injuries, frustration, forced stillness, and unexpected creativity. A fractured knee. Broken toes. A small eyelid carcinoma that, thankfully, was caught early and treated. None of it life‑ending, but all of it life‑interrupting. One thing after another stacked up, and before I knew it, much of my hiking season — my therapy, my grounding, my joy — was gone. Losing time on the trail hit harder than I expected. Hiking has always been how I reset, how I breathe, how I remind myself who I am. Without it, I slipped into a quiet depression that lingered longer than I wanted to admit. My body needed rest, but my spirit didn’t know what to do with the pause. So I created. During that slow, frustrating season, my hands stayed busy even when my feet couldn’t. I made a lot of trees — wire‑wrapped, rooted, reaching. Looking back, that feels symbolic now. Trees that stand still. Trees that grow anyway. Then, almost out of nowhere, the spiders arrived. Playful, ...