The Dragonfly

I’ll be the first to admit that this dragonfly isn’t my prettiest piece — at least not by traditional standards. Some people might look at it and feel underwhelmed, or even dislike it. And that’s okay. Because when I gave it to my sister, and she cried due to the sentimentality, her reaction was everything.

This piece was made using buttons that once belonged to our mom. When we were kids, my mom would occasionally sew, and I would sit on the floor next to her sewing machine, digging through a big tin of mismatched buttons. After she passed, I inherited her button collection. For years, I held onto it, knowing it mattered — but unsure how to use it in a way that felt worthy.

When my sister asked me to decorate a metal dragonfly she had, I knew immediately this was it.

To an outsider, these buttons might look old, random, or even a little messy. But to my sister, they carry memories — of our mom, of childhood, of moments that can’t be replaced. That dragonfly now hangs proudly in her kitchen, not because it’s perfect, but because it’s hers. Because it holds meaning.

That reaction — that connection — is at the heart of everything I do.

This is the root of Memento. I don’t create art to impress everyone. I create it to preserve memory, to transform ordinary or discarded objects into something extraordinary because of the story they carry. Sometimes the value of a piece isn’t in how it looks, but in how it makes someone feel.

And that is always the goal.