My first job was a seasonal one. I was fifteen, working in a small coastal town in Croatia, in a local gallery that represented more than twenty artists, most of them academically trained. I was selling, talking to visitors, answering questions, and watching how people moved through the space. The gallery showed original paintings in acrylic and oil, hand-glazed ceramic pieces made largely as souvenirs, and jewellery crafted from coral, Murano glass, ceramic, and silver. We also sold photographic prints of the city transferred onto wood — objects tourists often chose as quiet reminders of a place they had visited. That was where my relationship with art truly began.
Standing behind the counter day after day, I started to notice patterns. Which objects people picked up instinctively. Which ones they held for longer. Which pieces sparked conversation, and which were chosen almost silently, as if the decision had already been made before any words were exchanged. I found myself drawn less to perfection and more to objects made by hand — pieces that carried a sense of intention rather than polish. They felt personal, as if they held the imprint of the person who made them, rather than existing solely for the purpose of being sold. Even when they were made for tourists, some objects carried a quiet weight that others didn’t. Working in that environment taught me something simple but lasting: people don’t just buy objects. They respond to stories, to process, to the feeling that something was made with care rather than speed. Long before “handmade” became a buzzword, I saw how easily authenticity could be recognised — and how quickly it could be dismissed when it wasn’t there.
Artists and makers have always felt distinct to me, not because of status or talent alone, but because of their ability to translate something internal into something tangible — something you can see, touch, and live with. Being close to that process, even from the position of a seller rather than a creator, shaped how I understand craft today. It is why I value handmade work so deeply, and why I am drawn to studios and creators who choose to work slowly, intentionally, and on their own terms. Not as a lifestyle statement, but as a conscious decision about how things should be made — and why they should exist at all.
