08/21/2026
There are people in this world who leave such a mark on us.
A few weeks ago, my caster, Vazgen, passed away. I worked with this man for seven years; his face was one I saw every week. We spoke about his time in the trade—he had been a jeweler since he was a kid, living in Iran and Armenia. Man, did he have a lot of wisdom to share.
I loved those visits. I loved sharing my design dreams and saying things like, “Yeah, but weirder! I like weird!” when he couldn’t understand why I didn’t just go the easy route. He would scoff at me and say, “I know, Miranda. I know,” in his thick Armenian accent.
Every piece you have from me from the last seven years passed through Vazgen’s hands. He always cast it, sometimes helped polish it, and often soldered all the little bits my epileptic tremors made too tricky for me to get right. I always felt respected by him, and I trusted him implicitly—something that can be hard to come by as a woman in this industry.
Today, I’m so thankful to have a handful of rings on my hand that we made together: me, the designs and waxes; him, the many skills of production and so much patience.
Right now, the work comes with pangs of sadness. But his daughter gave me his well worn pliers. I’ll carry them forward—not by trying to replace him, but by letting what he taught me keep moving through every piece I make. His hands shaped so much of my work. Now, in a small way, his craft will continue through mine.
