Furniture and objects from solid oak and ash. I work alone, in 25m² near Warsaw. No particle board. No veneer. No catalogue. Four lines, one pair of hands.
Each sub-line is a character from Norse mythology — not a place. Yggdrasil is the axis around which the home turns. Fylgja is the companion spirit. Sif is the hearth. Ivaldi is the forge. One palette, one pair of hands, four scales and four tempos.
Tables, shelving, beds, built-ins. Every piece designed for a specific home and a specific pair of hands. 4–5 commissions per year. No exceptions.
Coffee tables, nightstands, stools, consoles. Furniture that doesn't want the spotlight — but shows up every day.
Boards, trays, containers, serving pieces. Often from the same wood that became a large table.
Pen trays, headphone stands, desk organisers. The sons of Ivaldi forged Thor's hammer. Your desk deserves the same attention.
Every piece has a story. Every one is signed. Some carry scars.
Andvari guarded gold beneath a waterfall. This cabinet guards its drawers from a two-year-old — with a wooden peg instead of a lock. Cherry fronts, the first cherry in the palette. And facing the wall, where nobody looks: 450 end-grain oak blocks glued into a panel no one sees. Most of the work went into the invisible part. On purpose.
Three tables. One tailor. Top with an openwork lattice, tambour of vertical slats, cracks stitched with butterfly inlays. A commission measured in months of patience.
The Hanging Gardens of Babylon — in domestic scale. A solid oak shelf, seven shelves, three modules, edges hand-rounded with a sander. No router.
Separation — Arabic, borrowed by Persian. The other half of a pair commissioned alongside Amytis: she longed for the mountains of Media, he is the longing. Oak with its face cracks left open, walnut dowels and butterflies, and a memento mori stamped where the client may never find it.
A sculpture that agrees to be useful.
A pen tray. Floats above the desk. The first Ivaldi — made because nothing like it was out there.
I started because I wanted to create. I ended up optimising. Wood reminded me.
The price comes from the board, not from a catalogue. So much wood, so many hours, so much history.
These aren't "brand values." They're operating decisions that reject 80% of enquiries. A filter, not a declaration.
A knot fell out — it stays. A crack — I highlight it. Sawmill marks — the memory of the material. I don't fill with resin, I don't cover with filler. The wood knows better.
Oak. Ash. Walnut. No particle board, MDF, OSB, HDF, veneer. Full planks. Live edge when the material calls for it. Nothing hidden.
40–80 hours per piece. 6–16 weeks for Yggdrasil. That's not a flaw — it's a pricing argument. I don't work to yesterday's deadline. Ever.
Like in a dance. A project on paper starts from a specific plank — from this sawmill, with this knot, with this crack. Often the material tells me what it wants to become. A "custom-size" table has dimensions that come from a specific block — not the other way around.
Where the wood came from, when it was felled, how it was dried, what finish was used, how many hours of work, serial number, signature. Hand-stamped paper. Not a PDF.
The full history of a piece of furniture, from forest trunk to your living room. Facts I can prove — and scars I won't apologise for.
A programmer who defined himself by code for years. Somewhere along the way he stopped asking about beauty. Wood reminded him.
Today: 25m² of garage near Warsaw, solid wood, one pair of hands, four lines. No employees, no subcontractors, no catalogue. Every signature on the underside — mine.
Write briefly: what, where, when. I'll reply within a day. If the project fits — we'll set a price and deposit. If not — I'll say so straight and recommend someone better.
