This week in our Meet the Jeweller series, we had the pleasure to ask metalsmith Todd Conover some questions about his journey from fashion design into jewellery making.
You have a background in fashion design — what drew you towards metalwork, and how did jewellery become your main focus?
I’m a collector at heart. Early in my collecting journey, I focused on objects from the Arts and Crafts Movement. Now, backtracking a bit — I’ve been teaching at Syracuse University for 31 years, and as faculty, I have access to remitted tuition, which allows me to take classes for free. In 2010, I decided to enroll in an introductory metalworking class. My goal was simple: to better understand how the metal objects I was collecting were made, so I could become a more informed collector.
It wasn’t even a week into the course—after breaking what felt like 500 saw blades—that I realized I had stumbled onto something that had been missing from my life. I kept going, continued with the program, and ultimately earned an MFA in Jewelry and Metals.
Interestingly, in those early days, I refused to make anything wearable. Coming from a long career in fashion, I had spent years thinking about the body in relation to clothing, and I really wanted to break away from that. I focused instead on vessels, lamps, and sculptural objects.
Around that time, a colleague—who is a fashion museum curator—was organizing an exhibition pairing Arts and Crafts furniture and decorative objects with contemporary women’s fashion from the same era. He invited me to create a few wearable pieces—jewelry—for the show. I agreed, and the museum’s gallery later asked if I would reproduce some of those designs for the shop. The pieces sold out quickly, and I realized something important: while jewelry is wearable, it doesn’t come with the same psychological or fit challenges that clothing does.
Since then, I’ve been making jewelry—and I haven’t looked back.
How do you approach the transition from an initial sketch or idea to a finished piece?
I keep small yellow legal pads and fine-point Sharpie markers in every room of my house—I’m constantly jotting down ideas. These aren’t full sketches, but fragments: details of joinery, interesting shapes, textures, or more fully formed concepts. Inspiration comes from everywhere, and I’m always translating what I see into potential jewelry forms.
When I begin a project, I don’t start with a detailed, finalized drawing. Instead, I head into the studio with a handful of those exciting fragments and a vague sense of direction. From there, I let the process lead. Certain ideas will rise to the surface more clearly than others, and a piece starts to take shape.
I see the metalworking process as a collaborative partner in my design practice. The material itself has a voice and often guides the direction of the work. That kind of creative freedom keeps the outcome both surprising and dynamic.
You’ve spoken about “conceptual birth, abandonment, and re-birth” — could you share a piece where that creative cycle made a big impact?
While I can’t point to one specific piece, this cycle is a constant in my practice. All of my work is one of a kind and built through layers of multiple components, so experimentation is always part of the process. I fabricate every test in the actual intended material—usually silver—which means I often end up with a collection of unused components by the end of a project.
I call this growing collection my library. These pieces—fragments, forms, textures—sit lined up and visible in the studio. I like to keep them in sight while I work. And then, often unexpectedly, one of them will become exactly what I need for a new piece. What’s interesting is that they’re rarely used as originally intended—they find a new purpose, a new context, and sometimes even drive a piece in an entirely different direction.
That cycle of conceptual birth, abandonment, and re-birth isn’t just occasional—it’s foundational to how I work.
Are there early 20th-century Arts and Crafts techniques you still use, and what do they bring to your work?
Absolutely. While my work today isn’t overtly inspired by the Arts and Crafts Movement, it remains at the core of my practice—it’s my foundation, and very much in my blood.
Metalworking techniques haven’t changed dramatically across design periods, but one principle I consistently carry forward from Arts and Crafts is the celebration of the maker’s hand. For example, when I use a hammer to form or shape a piece of metal, I often choose to leave the hammer marks visible rather than planish them away. Those marks are evidence of process, of labor, of human touch—and they give the work a sense of honesty and presence that I deeply value.
That respect for craftsmanship and the visible hand is something I’ll never move away from. It keeps my work grounded, tactile, and connected to a lineage I admire.
How do you decide when to incorporate colour through gemstones, enamel, or patina?
It really comes out of that collaborative relationship between the process and me that I mentioned earlier. Often, a piece will begin to “demand” color or a shift in material, and that’s when I start searching for the right element to answer that call.
Sometimes, it’s the opposite—a particular stone or color will be the first voice in the process, and the entire piece will grow around it. But more often, those decisions happen organically as the piece evolves.
I have a large and ever-changing collection of stones and found objects that I’m constantly sifting through. Many of the ones I’m most excited about live right on my bench, in the same “library” of elements that I draw from regularly. It’s a very tactile, intuitive process—letting the piece tell me what it needs.
What’s the most unusual or unexpected material you’ve worked with?
I’ve experimented with a number of oddball and unexpected materials over the years, but one of the most memorable was a series I created a few years ago using 19th- and 20th-century tin lithography.
The material came from antique product tins—things like tobacco, medicinal, and coffee containers—as well as vintage tin game boards. The graphics were bold, colorful, and full of historical texture, which made them a fascinating contrast to the metals I typically use. I paired the lithographed tin with sterling silver, copper, and brass, allowing the printed imagery to play a central role in the visual language of the pieces.
It was an exciting challenge to work with something so visually loaded and delicate, and it brought a whole new dimension to the work—bridging nostalgia, storytelling, and contemporary design.
Do you have a favourite piece you’ve ever made — one that you’d never sell — and why is it so meaningful?
I get asked that a lot, and my answer is always the same: I’m someone who’s always looking forward, so my favorite piece is usually the one currently sitting on my bench. My process is obsessive—when I’m working on something, it completely takes over my thoughts until it’s finished.
That said, there are a few pieces that have stayed with me, and even one that I’ve tried to buy back. It’s not a jewelry piece, but rather an intricately pieced copper box with a sterling silver dragonfly “landing” on it. I’m not entirely sure why it holds such meaning—maybe it’s connected to whatever was happening in my life at the time, or perhaps it’s simply the extraordinary amount of time and energy it took to bring it to completion.
Whatever the reason, it’s one of those rare pieces that continues to tug at me, even long after it’s left the studio.
In what ways does your fashion background still influence how you design and construct jewellery?
That’s a great question—and one I’ve thought about quite a bit over the years. I’ve been making clothes far longer than I’ve been making jewelry, so those construction methods and sequencing processes are deeply ingrained in how I think.
When I approach a metal construction project, I often do it the same way I would a garment. There’s a logic to how pieces come together, how they’re built up layer by layer, that comes directly from my fashion background. Is it the way most metalsmiths would approach it? Probably not. But it’s second nature to me, and it works.
That early training gave me a comfort with structure and assembly that continues to shape how I problem-solve in the studio—just with different materials now.
Where do you find the most inspiration — in nature, in architecture, in people, or somewhere else entirely?
While biomorphism and nature are definitely recurring themes in my work, inspiration truly comes from everywhere. A small detail—a texture, a shadow, a bit of joinery—can send my work off in an entirely new direction.
Being open to inspiration is something that takes practice; it’s a way of seeing that artists develop over time. I really believe in that: learn to see. Opportunity and possibility exist in everything around us.
For me, inspiration rarely arrives as a fully formed idea. It usually starts as something small and quiet—a texture on a stick I noticed on the sidewalk, a line in a newspaper article—and it grows from there. Most of my pieces are a combination of multiple inspirations, often unexpected ones. It’s all fair game, as long as it eventually leads to something tangible and meaningful.
What’s one tool in your studio you couldn’t live without, and what makes it special?
Without a doubt, it’s the jewelry bench I inherited from my grandfather. He was a well-known cabinetmaker—many of his works are in museums and private collections—and I like to believe that whatever artistic instincts I have came from him.
He also worked in metal and made much of the hardware for his furniture himself. The bench, which he likely built in the mid to late 1940s, is made from beautiful curly maple and came to me complete with several of his original tools—many of which I still use daily.
It’s far more than just a piece of furniture. It connects me to him and to a legacy of making. Having it in my studio feels like having him there with me, guiding me through each piece. It’s both a practical tool and a deeply personal anchor in my creative life.
How do you balance your work as an Associate Professor with your own studio practice?
One of the great things about a career in academia is the flexibility it offers. While the hours can be long, I do have extended blocks of time that are my own. Plus, since I teach art, design, and creativity, my professional roles naturally blend together rather than compete.
My studio is very close to where I teach, so I’m constantly moving between my office, classroom, and studio. It’s not unusual for me to show up to class covered in silver dust and flux!
My studio practice and the challenges I face there are very similar to those in a fashion studio, so I often bring fresh ideas and approaches from my metalwork into my teaching. This integration keeps both sides of my work vibrant and interconnected.
What advice would you give to someone trying to find their own style in jewellery making?
My advice is simple: find your own voice. I know it sounds cliché, but it’s so easy when you’re starting out to look at jewelry you admire and try to replicate it. That’s natural, and yes—do look at everything you can, but with detective eyes.
Instead of copying whole pieces, focus on extracting small details, textures, construction methods, or joinery ideas that resonate with you. Then, reinterpret those elements through your own aesthetic.
I use a design exercise with my fashion students where they select five garments and create one new piece inspired by tiny ideas drawn from each of them. The result is something entirely unique that doesn’t directly resemble any of the originals.
Every day, we have the incredible power to create work that truly can’t be found anywhere else in the world. Why wouldn’t we embrace and harness that?
When you’re not making jewellery or teaching, what’s your favourite way to spend your time?
I’m often on the hunt for the next piece to add to my ever-growing collection. Collecting requires a lot of time and research, so when I’m not actively searching, I’m usually reading and learning about artists, objects, and different art movements.
Of course, I also enjoy relaxing with a good movie or TV show—that downtime is important!
My spouse of 40 years, Gary, and I share our home with two beloved fur babies: Owen, a beagle, and Ryker, a puggle. They certainly keep us on our toes and bring a lot of joy to our lives.
If you could collaborate with any other artist or designer — past or present — who would it be, and why?
There are so many incredible artists I admire, but if I had the chance to work in one artist’s studio, it would have to be Italian American Modernist sculptor and jewelry maker Harry Bertoia. His ability to merge sculpture, sound, and wearable art is truly inspiring. I’d love to experience firsthand his creative process and the way he blurred boundaries between disciplines.
What’s next for you — are there new materials, techniques, or themes you’re excited to explore?
I honestly never know what’s next—and that’s part of the beauty of my practice. I give myself complete freedom to pivot and explore new directions at any moment.
I’ve been making things with my hands nearly every day for almost 50 years. At this stage, I no longer take commissions because I find they can stifle creativity by imposing too much structure on my studio time. My pieces are often time-consuming, and I want to focus on creating work that surprises and delights me in the end. Maybe that sounds selfish, but I’m always striving for what I call the “power of unique”—that special quality that makes a piece truly one of a kind.
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