From a young age, I was always creating—drawing, shaping, building. A curious boy, brimming with questions and wonder. But as the years wore on, that light dimmed. I became more concerned with fitting in, being normal, finding a place in the familiar world. I learned to hide, to dim my shine, to stay under the radar. Life, with its family turmoil and adolescent confusion, only deepened my desire for invisibility.
Yet, even in those muddled years, creativity never left me. If I wasn’t sketching or painting, I was making music, crafting songs, and losing myself in dance. The world around me seemed to blur, but the act of creating always brought clarity—if only for a moment. There were years of rebellion, filled with drinking and dancing away the nights. Yet beneath it all, I felt a growing itch, a quiet but persistent yearning for something more.
For what is a man without purpose?
Questions stirred in me: Why am I here? What is this life? What does it mean to be free? Why must we suffer? These thoughts gnawed at me, urging me to look both inward and outward for answers. We are human, yes, but not merely so. We straddle two worlds: part animal, part something far greater. We eat, we sleep, we make love, we feel deeply, and we create. Unlike any other creature, we bend our surroundings to our will. And yet, it’s when we live on the edge, out of comfort, that we grow the most.
Driven by this restlessness, I began to seek something tangible, something that could ground me. I found myself drawn to the quiet patience of working with wood. The feel of raw materials in my hands brought me back to myself. Each cut, each joint, each polished surface became a meditation—an act of creation that was both ancient and immediate. It was through this craft that I learned to shape not only wood, but my own path forward.
I lost myself in the craft and later delved into interior design, permaculture, and landscape design. The joy of transforming barren land into lush, productive ecosystems filled me with a quiet satisfaction. I could’ve been content there, hands in the soil, shaping gardens and crafting beauty from the earth.
But I craved more. So I left the grind of Melbourne behind, seeking the subtropical rhythms of Northern NSW—seeking a quieter life, closer to the sea. The shift was jarring, the pace slower than I’d known. But in that stillness, I found a kind of healing. Yet, as much as I loved the land, gardening in the Northern Rivers didn’t stir my soul as it had before. I drifted back into construction, a familiar rhythm, though it felt incomplete.
It wasn’t until I began crafting small pieces of furniture for myself that something inside me clicked. A few paintings here and there, a few commissioned pieces for friends—suddenly, I felt alive again. And then, a trip to Europe in 2022 shattered the ceiling I’d placed over myself. The old world, with its reverence for beauty and detail, filled me with awe. The craftsmanship was more than skill; it was artistry. A kind of magic that had long been forgotten in modern times.
I was also drawn to the Japanese way of seeing the world—their quiet appreciation for things well-worn, aged by time and use. They understand, as I’ve come to, that we are like the objects we cherish. We collect scratches and scars along the way, yet through them, we find our strength. We crack, and we rebuild. We break, and we repair.
And so, Kitsune Moon was born. An artistry born from childlike wonder, driven by the questions that still stir within me. A pursuit of beauty in imperfection, and a love for the delicate balance in all things.