A Shitload of Coffee

$310.00
sold out

Swamp tōtara, South Wairarapa stone, copper

I didn’t name this piece. Someone else did, years ago long before I ever laid hands on the wood. It was written, in thick black pen, across the end of a rough block of swamp tōtara. A shitload of coffee.

No date, no signature, no explanation. Just those words, sitting under a fine layer of dust, waiting.

The block had been cut from a much larger tree — something ancient, something that had stood tall before falling, then spent decades or centuries resting beneath the surface. Held in the hush of the swamp, long after its branches were gone. Maybe it fell on its own. Maybe it was felled. Either way, it was carried forward, passed on and eventually found its way to me.

I ran my hand over the grain, trying to work out where to start. And there they were, the words. Still visible. Still bold. And somehow, they stuck.

This piece holds that humour — and the weight beneath it. It’s a candleholder, yes, but more than that, it’s a stacking of time. At the base, a green-veined rock from the South Wairarapa, layered and grounded, like land formed under pressure. Then the first lathed ball of tōtara, shaped from the old swamp wood. Above that, a pale marble-like stone soft in colour but solid in form. Then another turned piece of tōtara, not quite round, not quite symmetrical. And at the top, a copper crown, built to hold a single flame.

Each layer rests on the next. Nothing perfect. Nothing polished. But together, they stand.

And the name — it’s stayed, because it’s honest. Because someone once carved that tree and felt something big enough to write it down. Maybe it was about the job. Maybe about the moment. I never asked. I don’t need to know.

What I do know is that it made me look again. It made me laugh. Then think. Then shape. Then light.

H 28cm

w 15cm

Swamp tōtara, South Wairarapa stone, copper

I didn’t name this piece. Someone else did, years ago long before I ever laid hands on the wood. It was written, in thick black pen, across the end of a rough block of swamp tōtara. A shitload of coffee.

No date, no signature, no explanation. Just those words, sitting under a fine layer of dust, waiting.

The block had been cut from a much larger tree — something ancient, something that had stood tall before falling, then spent decades or centuries resting beneath the surface. Held in the hush of the swamp, long after its branches were gone. Maybe it fell on its own. Maybe it was felled. Either way, it was carried forward, passed on and eventually found its way to me.

I ran my hand over the grain, trying to work out where to start. And there they were, the words. Still visible. Still bold. And somehow, they stuck.

This piece holds that humour — and the weight beneath it. It’s a candleholder, yes, but more than that, it’s a stacking of time. At the base, a green-veined rock from the South Wairarapa, layered and grounded, like land formed under pressure. Then the first lathed ball of tōtara, shaped from the old swamp wood. Above that, a pale marble-like stone soft in colour but solid in form. Then another turned piece of tōtara, not quite round, not quite symmetrical. And at the top, a copper crown, built to hold a single flame.

Each layer rests on the next. Nothing perfect. Nothing polished. But together, they stand.

And the name — it’s stayed, because it’s honest. Because someone once carved that tree and felt something big enough to write it down. Maybe it was about the job. Maybe about the moment. I never asked. I don’t need to know.

What I do know is that it made me look again. It made me laugh. Then think. Then shape. Then light.

H 28cm

w 15cm