The conch shell has always felt like a secret kept by the sea. As a kid growing up near the water, I remember picking them up along the beach—sometimes empty, sometimes still pulsing with life. I’d hold them to my ear, like every child does, convinced I could hear the ocean whispering back. And maybe I did. Maybe we all do. That memory stayed with me.

 

My conch shell sculptures are born from that quiet, sacred exchange between nature and memory. To me, the conch is more than a seashell. It’s a resonance—a natural form shaped by time and tide and carried across generations. They wash ashore like ancient messengers, telling stories of reefs, currents, storms, and silence.

 

The design of a conch is perfection without trying. That spiral—it’s a miracle of sacred geometry. It draws you inward. It’s mathematical and spiritual all at once, a shape that reminds me of galaxies, whirlpools, even the curve of a fingerprint. In sculpting conchs, I’m responding to that divine architecture with reverence. I try to capture both the weight and the weightlessness. There’s heft in a conch shell, but there’s also delicacy—the ridge of the lip, the smoothness of the inner curl, the way it feels both ancient and ethereal. I want the bronze to feel as if it was pulled from the seabed itself and burnished by sun and salt.

 

There’s also a metaphor in the conch. It’s about listening. Really listening. Not just to sound, but to intuition. To the deeper currents that run through life. The conch doesn’t shout—it holds. It gathers. It reflects. And in a world that so often rushes and clamors, I think there's something powerful in that.

 

Some of my collectors tell me their conch sculpture reminds them of their childhood by the ocean. Others say it feels spiritual, grounding. For me, it’s both. It’s a tribute to the sea and all it’s given me—not just visually, but emotionally, spiritually, creatively.​