For why forget the hands that toil and trouble…

Someone worked on that table you see in the corner. Someone chipped and sawed and polished and scrubbed till it shone like a diamond. To make it an heirloom, a piece of history if you wish.

Someone poured his life’s energy into that brown rocking chair with the wide generous armrests, using weather worn hands to craft memories that will be passed down from generation to generation; of lullabies hummed from mother to child, and then, grandchild, as night after night it rocks baby to sleep. A witness in some way, to a life.

Our works men, our craftsmen, our carpenters, we are nothing without them. For to build something from scratch, to actually bring it to life with your own hands, not churned out from a machine or spewed out of an assembly line, is to really build something: something that is worth owning, that has a character only sweat, blood and life force can create. We are our Artisans. And that’s who we choose to be.