So, let’s talk about wax.

I love working with wax.

Though I still have a deep love for beginning directly with metal, I find myself returning to wax more and more.

That shift happened around the time I was about to give birth to my son. It truly took hold after he was born — when I still felt the need to create, but time, energy, and physical possibility were suddenly limited. I remember sitting with my son on my knees, carving my very first wax models with a thin piece of wired wax. Quiet moments. Small hands. Soft concentration.

For some reason, during that time, I was drawn to roses — or flowers in general — and twisted bands. From those moments grew two collections that I still love and cherish deeply today.

Moving from working directly with metal to working with wax changed something fundamental. Maybe everything.

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Wax opened a new door for me — one filled with endless possibilities that felt different from working solely with metal. My jewellery shifted from being more delicate to becoming heavier, more sculptural, more of a statement — yet still carrying something soft and poetic within it.

There is also something deeply meditative about working with wax. Sitting quietly, shaping, carving, allowing the form to slowly emerge. And then comes the waiting: sending a finished wax model to the caster. It feels almost like being a child again, waiting to open Christmas gifts under the tree.

In the world we live in today, that feeling — genuine anticipation — is rare. I am so grateful to experience it every time I send a piece to be cast.

When the piece returns, I often feel surprised — most often in a good way — by how it has transformed. Then it’s back to the bench, refining the details, finishing the surfaces, guiding the piece into exactly what it’s meant to be.

I prefer working with jewellery directly from the cast and finishing each piece by hand afterwards. That way, every piece retains its own small uniqueness. Tiny differences. Subtle marks of the process. Proof that it was made slowly, carefully, and by hand.

The new year has begun, and January has already brought new treasures into being.

Soon they will be ready to meet the world — and when they are, I’ll take you with me through the making of each piece

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I often find it difficult to answer the question of where my inspiration comes from - even when I ask myself.

Ideas rarely arrive fully formed. More often, they appear as small flashes of light — in quiet moments when I’m doing very little, or while sitting with a piece of metal or wax in my hands.

For a long time, I thought of inspiration as something spontaneous and fleeting. But one morning, it struck me that much of what I create is shaped by something far older and more constant: the past. I am deeply drawn to history, almost instinctively. I absorb it through literature, museum visits, podcasts, and articles, often without realising how much it seeps into my thinking.

When I look at my jewellery, I can often trace where my attention has been resting. Certain forms, surfaces, and details reveal which historical periods have occupied my mind at a given time. My inspiration shifts and moves, sometimes guided by the seasons, sometimes by a particular era that quietly asks for more space.

Ancient times has always held a special place for me. Beyond the remarkable craftsmanship and the extraordinary level of detail achieved, I am drawn to the tactile qualities of ancient jewellery — its surfaces, its forms, its colours, the details, and the gemstones, and its setting techniques. But perhaps most of all, I am drawn to its imperfections. The visible marks of the hand. The quiet evidence that something was made by a person.

These pieces are not sterile. They feel almost alive, carrying weight, presence, and character. And when I look at my own work, I recognise the same impulse returning again and again. I want the craft to remain visible. I want the slight irregularities, the small “flaws,” the moments where the hand is allowed to show. For me, this is where a piece becomes interesting. This is where it gains its personality.

I tend to store things in my memory — images, textures, fragments of knowledge. Much of it stays there quietly, without structure or intention. And when I sit down to create a piece of jewellery, that stored knowledge finds its way out through my hands. I am not always consciously aware of it in the moment. But when I look back at a piece, or spend more time working with it, I begin to see how the puzzle comes together - where the inspiration has been drawn from. Not as a direct reference, but as something absorbed and transformed.

When we look, listen, observe, or touch something, it awakens a feeling within us. Sometimes it is something familiar, something we already know. Other times it is something we long to know, or feel connected to. Creating jewellery works in the same way for me. A piece often brings emotions to the surface — sometimes through a historical reference that only reveals itself later, sometimes while I am still in the process of making it. The act of creation becomes a quiet journey. Either the piece carries me through time, or I carry the piece with me — through the past, through memory, and through all the layers that have settled within me over time.

Music plays an important role in this process as well. It has a profound influence on my work, not by offering direct inspiration, but by evoking emotions. These emotions find their way into the piece as it is being created, becoming part of its form, its rhythm, and its presence.

Right now, I am in a phase of learning. I search for knowledge not only through the mind, but through seeing and listening as well. I feel drawn to dig deeper into what interests me, trusting that this quiet accumulation is what gives my work its form, its life, and its sense of movement.

My Gaia ring is one of them.

It was the very first ring I ever carved in wax, and I was pregnant with my son at the time. Almost without realising it, the ring came to embody everything that moment held: Mother Earth, pregnancy, creation, and new beginnings.

The design is simple and timeless, yet powerful. It’s a heavy ring — not just in form, but in meaning. At least for me.

This winter, I decided to gift it to myself in solid gold, set with three diamonds I inherited from my grandmother in France. I received them during a visit to her last summer — stones already carrying their own history, love, and time.

In this version, Gaia holds even deeper meaning. The gold represents earth, strength, and love. The three diamonds are my son, my grandmother, and myself.

The ring’s form carries the weight of the child I once carried. The diamonds reflect the bond between generations — past, present, and future — held together in one piece.

Gaia will always be very personal to me.

A piece born from my hands, shaped by motherhood, and grounded in love — and forever rooted in my own story.

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I’m so happy that you want to be here.

This little corner of the internet is a place where I share more than just jewelry – it’s thoughts, inspiration, and glimpses of my life as a goldsmith, a mother, and a dreamer.

As a subscriber, you’ll sometimes receive:

• A peek behind the scenes as new pieces come to life.

• Little stories about nature, love, and craftsmanship that inspire my collections.

• Early access to new designs and special “insider” surprises.

I hope it will feel like a warm, poetic letter in your inbox – a bit like sharing a cup of coffee with me in the studio.

Thank you for supporting my work and my small brand. It means more than you know.

With love,

Sienna Rousseau

siennarousseau.com