There's a moment in every piece I work with when I discover its wounds. A split running through the heartwood. Bark coming loose from a winter storm. A hollow where an old branch once grew. In conventional woodworking, these would be problems to solve, flaws to hide, imperfections to sand away.
But I've learned something different from an ancient Japanese practice called kintsugi—the art of repairing broken pottery with gold lacquer. Instead of disguising damage, kintsugi celebrates it, transforming breaks into veins of precious metal that make the piece more beautiful than it ever was whole.
Finding Gold in Copper
While traditional kintsugi uses gold, my workshop tells a different story. When I find a crack that needs support or bark that's pulling away from heartwood, I reach for reclaimed copper.
Each copper staple I drive through loose bark or wire stitched to prevent a crack from spreading becomes a small celebration of survival. The warm metal against weathered wood creates a conversation between elements, highlighting the very damage it secures. These aren't hidden repairs tucked away on the back of a piece. They're front and centre, integral to the design, proof that this wood has lived a full life.
The copper wire I thread through cracks follows the wood's own geography, accepting splits as rivers of character rather than fighting against them. These metal sutures hold pieces together while telling their stories louder, not quieter.
The Beauty of Wabi-Sabi
My approach connects deeply with wabi-sabi, the Japanese aesthetic of finding profound beauty in imperfection and impermanence. Every moss patch I preserve, every knot I work around, every weathered surface I protect with beeswax—these choices honour the idea that flaws aren't mistakes to be corrected but truths to be celebrated.
In our world of mass production and digital perfection, there's something radical about choosing the crooked branch, the gnarly log, the piece that most would pass by. Wabi-sabi teaches us that these imperfections don't diminish beauty—they define it.
Silver Dreams: The Alchemy of Aluminium
I'm drawn to push this philosophy further. In my workshop, I'm going to start experimenting with something that feels like modern alchemy: transforming discarded drinks cans into molten aluminium that I can pour into the natural channels and hollows of weathered wood.
There's poetry in this process. Those throwaway symbols of our disposable culture, melted down and given new purpose, flowing like silver streams through ancient grain patterns.
Imagine a tabletop where aluminium flows through the natural split in a century-old oak plank, or a wall sconce where molten metal has filled the cracks ans catches the soft light of candles or fairy lights. These aren't repairs in any traditional sense. They're collaborations between human craft and natural form, each one unique to its particular piece of timber.
The Ritual of Repair
Working this way changes everything about the making process. Each repair becomes a meditation, a slow conversation with the wood about what it needs and what it can offer. Hand-shaping copper staples on a mini anvil. Threading wire through cracks. Planning where aluminium might flow to best honour the wood's own story.
This isn't efficient. It's not scalable. It can't be rushed or automated. But that's exactly the point. In a world obsessed with speed and uniformity, there's something profound about choosing the slow path, the imperfect path, the path that honours what already exists rather than imposing what we think should be.
Scars as Stories
Every piece that leaves my workshop carries its scars openly. The copper stitches catch candlelight. The preserved bark tells of seasons survived. Soon, aluminium streams will trace the aged splits, cracks and storm damage like precious veins through living wood.
These aren't flaws disguised as features. They're honest celebrations of resilience, reminders that the most beautiful things are often those that have survived the most, been broken and rebuilt, weathered and worn smooth by time and touch.
In kintsugi, the golden repair is often more beautiful than the original pottery. In my work with reclaimed wood, I'm discovering the same truth: sometimes the most honest beauty comes not from perfection, but from the courage to celebrate our breaks, our repairs, our perfectly imperfect scars.
Because every wound tells a story. And every story deserves to be heard.
At Bough & Burrow, I believe that the most beautiful pieces are those that have lived full lives. From my small workshop in the Cotswolds, I transform reclaimed and foraged wood into functional art that celebrates natural imperfection. Each piece is hand-finished and entirely unique—because nature never repeats itself.
