This vase is one of four pieces that survived a hundred-year-old maple's decade on the ground. This is its whole story, from standing tree to your shelf.
Through every winter this city could throw at it. Families moved in and out of the houses around it. It outlasted most of them. Then one final winter, the winds took it down.
This is where most stories end. But something else was happening in the wet wood: sugars oxidizing into streaks of flame red, fungi drawing fine grey boundary lines through the fibres. The tree was being ruined and made extraordinary at the same time, by the same process.
When my arborist friend finally cut it up, nearly the whole trunk was past saving. Out of a hundred years of tree, four pieces of usable wood came off that ground. Four. This vase and its companion bowl are two of them. There is no fifth.
600 St. Jean Baptiste Street, St. Boniface. A hundred years on one corner of one street. The pin is the spot.
Scroll slowly. Scroll back up and time runs backwards.
Three rare things happening in one vessel. Touch the marks to know them. Tap the wood to fall into the grain.
Every piece is one of one. When something new leaves the shop, the list sees it before Instagram, before the shows, before anyone. No noise. Only finished work, a few times a year.
I'm Sean Philips. Every piece I make starts as a Manitoba tree that was coming down anyway: storm-felled, disease-struck, or in the way. Nothing is harvested. Everything is rescued.
I carve alone, in Winnipeg, one vessel at a time. No two trees have the same story, so no two pieces can exist twice, and I wouldn't want them to.