Why I Work With Leather

It didn’t start in a studio. It started in the woods.

Back then, I was a wilderness survival instructor — living by the rule of essentials and utility. But the more gear I carried, the more I felt like Batman on a bad day. Too many pouches. Too little order. I needed a sheath. Not just for one knife — but for everything: my camp blade, my fine work knife, my multitool, my firestarter, and my flashlight.

Problem was, no one made anything like that.

So I said, “Screw it.” I bought some leather, dove headfirst into YouTube, and taught myself how to make what I needed. I learned about wet-forming veg tan. I learned why welts matter. And then I stitched my first piece together — not for the ‘Gram, but for the grind.

That was the spark. Leatherwork wasn’t just crafting. It was problem-solving. It was storytelling. And it was mine.

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From Utility to Meaning

What kept me coming back wasn’t just the craft — it was the connection.

I’ve always been wired to help people. That’s my core drive in life. And when I started making leather goods for others, I realized something: people rarely get exactly what they want out of mass-produced gear. They settle. They compromise. But when someone comes to me with an idea — a gift, a memory, a need — I get the chance to make something that’s not just beautiful, but personal. And when they give me a little creative license? That’s when the magic happens.

On top of that, my day job has me in front of a screen all day. The work I do there is valuable, but it's ephemeral — it only exists in the digital. Nothing I touch leaves a physical mark. But leather? Leather is real. I can hold it. Smell it. Shape it. Screw it up and start over. It’s something I can feel in my hands — a reminder that I’m still building something that matters.

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Why Leather?

Leather is more than just a material — it’s one of the cornerstones of human survival. We've been working with leather since we first stood upright. It’s a “mother” material — something that helped us survive the ice, the heat, and everything in between.

But it’s not just history that draws me in. Leather is durable. Treated right, it’ll outlive you. It becomes part of a legacy — something you can pass down. A bag made for grandpa becomes sacred in the hands of his grandkids.

And more than anything, leather is a medium for art. People don’t always think of it that way, but it’s incredibly versatile. I can dye it, paint it, shape it, mold it, carve it, or burn it. Whether someone wants clean, minimal lines or a punk-rock explosion with spikes and studs — I can make it.

It also matters to me that leather is, at its core, a recycled material. I get the concerns some people have, and I respect that. But in my view, leather honors the old-school mindset of “use the whole animal.” It's not waste. It’s transformation.

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Built for Legacy

Some of my most emotional moments at the bench haven’t come from big commissions or gallery builds — they’ve come from making things for my kids.

My daughter’s “Beela” bag is one of those pieces. It’s beautiful, just like her. And for my son, I special ordered Horween football leather to make him a wallet when he was in sixth grade. He’s now a sophomore in college — and still carrying that same wallet.

There’s something powerful about that. Knowing I’m giving them something of me in those pieces — something that will last their whole lives, maybe even get passed down to their own kids one day. That’s the kind of work that chokes you up. That’s why I don’t mass-produce anything.

Every project I take on carries weight. It’s not just leather — it’s blood and tears. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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The Difference is in the Hands

When I used to work craft shows, I’d bring a “Genuine Leather” belt from Walmart and cut it open for people. What did they see? A thin strip of leather glued over literal cardboard. That’s what mass production gets you — corners cut, materials faked, built for profit, not people.

Even the high-end designer brands — Gucci, Hermès, Louis — you’re paying a premium for the label, not the soul. Yeah, the materials are better, but you still don’t get exactly what you want. You get what they make.

With me, it’s different.

I don’t cut corners. I don’t skimp on materials. I don’t rush a damn thing. If I find something in a piece I don’t like — I toss it and start over. Because what I make for you… it matters. It carries your story. It carries you.

And I’ll be damned if you walk away with anything less than something worthy of being passed down.