Toymaker's Grandson.

There’s a quiet power in family history, and in my case, the legacy of a toymaker who never lived to see me born has become a powerful undercurrent in my creative work. In woodworking, there’s a constant dialogue between maker and material. Every grain tells a story, every knot has its place, and in this respect, I often feel connected to the generations of artisans and craftsmen who came before me. 

On my mothers side of the family, my grandmother Mary-Alice Basye, another key figure in my life who helped connect the dots between my family’s past and the path I’ve followed as an artist. She had a way of weaving family stories into everyday conversation (of course she was an incredible yarn wroker), and she was the keeper of our family history, making it come alive in ways that were both vivid and meaningful. 

Whenever I came home from work and excitedly shared a new project I had completed, her response would always be a fascinating connection to the past—a connection that I had never expected. I’d describe a large wooden door I had built, marveling at the design, the way the wood took on a life of its own. And without missing a beat, she’d smile and tell me that my great-great-great uncle was a door maker, and that he had hung the largest church door anyone had ever seen. She could recite the stories of our ancestors with a kind of reverence and clarity that made their work seem as alive and relevant today as it had been centuries ago.

I once came to her and excitedly showed her a large spinning art piece I’d crafted, the intricate gears and forms turning together in perfect harmony. She paused for a moment, her eyes lighting up with recognition. “Your great-great-great-great grandfather was a wheelwright,” she’d say, as though the link was obvious and undeniable. “He made wheels that stood the test of time—just like the one you’re making now.”

It wasn’t just the specific craft that intrigued her; it was the way she could trace my work back through the generations. In my family, there were barn builders, architects, carpenters, metalworkers—craftspeople of every kind. It seemed that everything I did, every piece I created, had a historical counterpart in the family tree. Every project I completed was a reminder of the deep-seated creativity and craftsmanship that flowed through my bloodline.

And so I was fascinated by how many generations of artisans had come before me, each leaving their own mark, whether through the work of their hands or the stories they’d passed down. And my grandmother, with her endless memory and passion for family lore, was the bridge between me and these forgotten artisans. She made sure I knew that I wasn’t just crafting in isolation, but as part of a continuum—a thread in a long history of makers who had shaped the world around them, and that I was just one more of them.