Why This Work Exists

There are easier ways to make things.

Faster ways. Louder ways. Ways that rely on novelty instead of intention. But that’s never been the point here.

David Koonce By Hand exists because some materials deserve a second life—and some ways of making are worth protecting, even when they’re no longer convenient.

Much of my work begins with objects that already have a history. Vintage flatware. Tools that have passed through many hands. Patterns that were designed in an era when durability mattered more than trends. These pieces weren’t meant to be disposable, and I don’t believe they should be treated that way now.

When I make something, I’m not trying to erase where it came from. I’m trying to listen to it.

The quiet value of things made slowly

Handmade isn’t about perfection. It’s about attention.

It’s about noticing how metal moves under pressure. How a surface changes as it’s worked. How a piece tells you when it’s finished—if you’re willing to pay attention.

No two pieces that leave my bench are exactly the same. That’s not a flaw. It’s evidence. Evidence that a human hand was involved. Evidence that time mattered.

In a world built on speed and replication, I believe there’s something grounding about objects that ask you to slow down—both in how they’re made and how they’re used.

Marks with memory

Some of the marks in my work come from impression dies—solid steel tools used to press patterns into metal. Many of these dies were made decades ago. Some are far older. In some cases, they’re part of a craft tradition that stretches back hundreds of years.

This kind of work is becoming increasingly rare. Not because it lacks value, but because it requires patience, knowledge, and tools that were never meant to be replaced by software.

Impression die work is, quietly, a vanishing art.

Many of these dies were once destined to be melted down for scrap or discarded entirely. Thankfully, organizations like Potter USA have stepped in to preserve thousands of these tools—saving not just the steel itself, but the history and knowledge embedded in it. Without that kind of stewardship, entire visual languages of craft would simply disappear.

When I use these tools, I’m not just making a pattern. I’m continuing a conversation that began long before me.

Stewardship, not novelty

I don’t believe everything needs to be new to be meaningful.

There’s a responsibility that comes with working in materials that have already survived one lifetime—and often more. My role isn’t to overwrite their story, but to carry it forward thoughtfully.

That’s why reuse matters here. Why process matters. Why restraint matters.

A bracelet doesn’t need to shout to be noticed. A home good doesn’t need to be precious to be valued. These are objects meant to be worn, handled, used, and lived with.

They’re meant to last.

By hand, on purpose

The phrase “by hand” gets used a lot these days. Here, it’s literal—and it’s intentional.

It means tools chosen carefully. Processes learned slowly. Decisions made at the bench, not the keyboard. It means accepting that some days the work goes exactly as planned, and some days the material has other ideas.

Both are part of the job.

This work exists because I believe craftsmanship still matters. Because I believe history deserves respect. And because I believe the objects we surround ourselves with should carry more than surface beauty—they should carry meaning.

Thank you for being here. Thank you for valuing work that takes time. And thank you for helping keep these stories—pressed into metal and memory alike—alive.