Calamari

Calamari started with a handful of impossibly thin branches that refused to lie still. Every time I set them down on the studio table, they curled and crossed like they were reaching for something. That restless gesture became the heart of this squid.
I spent a long time choosing only the lightest, most graceful pieces of driftwood from my shoreline walks-fragments that had been pared down by years of abrasion until they felt almost bonelike in the hand. Laid out one by one, they formed arms that arc and taper, each one slightly different, the way a real squid never repeats the same movement twice.
At the center, a compact, rounded form gives Calamari its quiet intelligence. I resisted the urge to overdefine it. A single, subtle focal point suggests an eye, letting your imagination do the rest. From there, the arms seem to unfurl into open water, some gathered close, others angling away, as if the creature is deciding whether to play, flee, or simply watch.
What I love most about this piece is its lightness. There is very little mass, only lines. On the wall, Calamari reads almost like a drawing in three dimensions, a sketch made of weathered wood and salt. It brings an easy, modern elegance to a space-perfect for a reading nook, a hallway, or above a console where you want a touch of marine life without anything heavy or literal.
For anyone who has ever watched small shapes flicker beneath a dock or off the side of a boat, Calamari will feel familiar. It holds that mix of curiosity and motion, capturing a creature that is as clever as it is elusive, assembled entirely from fragments that have already proven their ability to adapt and endure.