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Renderings, 2020 - 2025
Jewelbots, 2086
People that truly know David Michael might think robots, even jewelled robots, don’t fit into our core set of beliefs or interests given that we stubbornly continue to create works entirely by hand. You’d actually be kind of correct in that judgment, I love making art that celebrates the human and our sentimentality. Jewels that rebel against today’s technological world where computer aided design programs and 3D printers are taking jobs and skills out of human hands at a rapid pace, robots now build robots.
Having said that there was a time when robots were created by humans, by artists and craft people, and these are what interested me and captured my imagination as a child, this childhood excitement is what has inspired these series of sketches.
Two of my favourite things as a child involved robots, first there was The Jetsons, a space age counterpart to the Flintstones which I would watch back in the 80’s on New Zealand television. (Interesting fact from the show, George Jetson was born in this year, 2022) Cartoons were so great back then, back when they use to be animated by hand and not at all like these soulless computer generated examples kids have to sit through today. The Jetsons was is full of vitality and colour, which was so captivating, there were also many robots that would be zipping around everywhere which is where I guess my interest started.
My other childhood favourite were Transformers, the action figures. Actually there was the Transformer cartoon I’d watch also but the action figure toy robots were the main draw card and really amazing. Thinking back to them now it’s really inspiring to think that they were designed and made by human hand a decade before 3D computer aided design and before robotic 3D printers which are so wide spread now in jewellery making and every industry.
While robots of today (computer controlled 3D printers) take skills and jobs out of human hands, the robots of my childhood were created by artistic humans. This human input gave the robots of my childhood a soul and vitality that has inspired page after page of random robot designs in my sketchbooks, I’d like to share a small sample of them here with you, and how they have evolved over time.
Having said that there was a time when robots were created by humans, by artists and craft people, and these are what interested me and captured my imagination as a child, this childhood excitement is what has inspired these series of sketches.
Two of my favourite things as a child involved robots, first there was The Jetsons, a space age counterpart to the Flintstones which I would watch back in the 80’s on New Zealand television. (Interesting fact from the show, George Jetson was born in this year, 2022) Cartoons were so great back then, back when they use to be animated by hand and not at all like these soulless computer generated examples kids have to sit through today. The Jetsons was is full of vitality and colour, which was so captivating, there were also many robots that would be zipping around everywhere which is where I guess my interest started.
My other childhood favourite were Transformers, the action figures. Actually there was the Transformer cartoon I’d watch also but the action figure toy robots were the main draw card and really amazing. Thinking back to them now it’s really inspiring to think that they were designed and made by human hand a decade before 3D computer aided design and before robotic 3D printers which are so wide spread now in jewellery making and every industry.
While robots of today (computer controlled 3D printers) take skills and jobs out of human hands, the robots of my childhood were created by artistic humans. This human input gave the robots of my childhood a soul and vitality that has inspired page after page of random robot designs in my sketchbooks, I’d like to share a small sample of them here with you, and how they have evolved over time.
LIFTED. (an experimental fix), 2024
I notice details—the smaller the detail, the louder its voice is to me. There’s something about little things that feel very intimate and precious.
One such small detail that captured my attention while walking around downtown Boston from my apartment to the studio was a bright orange plastic needle cap—the kind that is supposed to act as a safeguard to protect the sharp point of a hypodermic needle. Honestly, the color is what captivated me first; such a bright, happy, and sunny hue called out to me against the cool grey sidewalk. Each sighting took me on a roller coaster of emotion—delight at the color, followed by the quick drop-off as I considered what these objects were and what they represented. My mind inevitably thought about the person who had used the needle, the life they live, and the hurt and pain they might carry with them as they walk the same streets I do. This was followed by a more urgent worry: where’s the uncapped used needle?
This wave of emotion occurred often enough that I started to wonder, what could I do to make others notice too? We were all just walking by, consumed with our own lives. I wanted to make something beautiful out of an ugly situation, which might lead to greater awareness of the issue.
As a jeweler, I create beautiful things every day, and my work is very meaningful to me. I weave hidden stories into my pieces through color, form, or symbolism in an attempt to articulate my emotions and memories—stories that can only be discovered by inquisitive, detail-oriented people like me who care enough to slow down and interact with my pieces on a deeper level. Most people could be forgiven for thinking my work is superficial, as most jewelry is, but I cherish the connections my work fosters with fellow detail devotees.
My goal with this specific piece was to create something so simple and visually quiet that its form wouldn’t grab attention. The material and concept, however, are full of emotion, reaching out to those who care enough to pay attention. My plan was to take the needle caps off the street, transform them into an unrecognizable form, and elevate them physically by having them worn as a brooch, thus raising their status from discarded trash to a precious jewel. I wanted to take people who might walk past this trash on the sidewalk on the same emotional roller coaster I experienced. I imagined someone being captivated by the jewel, only to be shocked when they learned its story.
Collecting the caps was easy. I found far more than enough over the course of two weeks walking around the city. After sterilizing them, I researched what type of plastic they were made of. They weren’t marked with the familiar numbered recycling triangle, but a little investigation into how they reacted to heat and water indicated they were made from polypropylene. I knew how to melt and work with this plastic, so there were no further boundaries to creating what I envisioned.
I used my 1909 Hardinge Cataract lathe to turn a simple aluminum buck that I could use as a mold for the plastic, and heated the caps to their melting point before shaping the molten blob into the form I had designed. My first two attempts weren’t great, but the advantage of polypropylene is that I could keep working it until I was satisfied with the result, and the third attempt was perfect.
Next, I had to consider how this piece could be worn. It didn’t feel right to attach a standard brooch pin on the back to fasten it to the wearer. My work was about creating a new life for this material, no longer in close proximity to a sharp point. I decided on a steel washer fixed to the back with handmade gold screws, allowing the piece to be worn with the aid of a simple magnet. This also left the reverse side blank—an empty canvas for me to engrave the words “Boston, we have a problem,” echoing Apollo 13’s famous call for help known around the world.
As I thought about and worked on this project, I wondered—can my art make a difference in my new community? After I shared a picture of this work on Instagram, I heard from many people who were concerned for my well-being and safety while collecting these discarded needle caps. For every direct message expressing sadness about the opioid epidemic, I received two messages warning me to be careful as I could get sick. It was lovely to feel cared about, and that’s exactly the kind of attention I want this project to redirect. I want people experiencing substance use disorders to be cared about too. I want to make their struggles, which seem as overlooked as the orange caps on the sidewalk, visible to everyone—especially those of us who overlook the details.
One message from a follower stood out more than all the others. She told me that in 2004 she lost her cousin Jimmy, a fellow artist, to an overdose. In remembrance, and to try to make a difference in my community, I plan to create a few more works with this emotionally charged material and name the collection after him. All proceeds will go to a local charity helping those struggling with addiction.
One such small detail that captured my attention while walking around downtown Boston from my apartment to the studio was a bright orange plastic needle cap—the kind that is supposed to act as a safeguard to protect the sharp point of a hypodermic needle. Honestly, the color is what captivated me first; such a bright, happy, and sunny hue called out to me against the cool grey sidewalk. Each sighting took me on a roller coaster of emotion—delight at the color, followed by the quick drop-off as I considered what these objects were and what they represented. My mind inevitably thought about the person who had used the needle, the life they live, and the hurt and pain they might carry with them as they walk the same streets I do. This was followed by a more urgent worry: where’s the uncapped used needle?
This wave of emotion occurred often enough that I started to wonder, what could I do to make others notice too? We were all just walking by, consumed with our own lives. I wanted to make something beautiful out of an ugly situation, which might lead to greater awareness of the issue.
As a jeweler, I create beautiful things every day, and my work is very meaningful to me. I weave hidden stories into my pieces through color, form, or symbolism in an attempt to articulate my emotions and memories—stories that can only be discovered by inquisitive, detail-oriented people like me who care enough to slow down and interact with my pieces on a deeper level. Most people could be forgiven for thinking my work is superficial, as most jewelry is, but I cherish the connections my work fosters with fellow detail devotees.
My goal with this specific piece was to create something so simple and visually quiet that its form wouldn’t grab attention. The material and concept, however, are full of emotion, reaching out to those who care enough to pay attention. My plan was to take the needle caps off the street, transform them into an unrecognizable form, and elevate them physically by having them worn as a brooch, thus raising their status from discarded trash to a precious jewel. I wanted to take people who might walk past this trash on the sidewalk on the same emotional roller coaster I experienced. I imagined someone being captivated by the jewel, only to be shocked when they learned its story.
Collecting the caps was easy. I found far more than enough over the course of two weeks walking around the city. After sterilizing them, I researched what type of plastic they were made of. They weren’t marked with the familiar numbered recycling triangle, but a little investigation into how they reacted to heat and water indicated they were made from polypropylene. I knew how to melt and work with this plastic, so there were no further boundaries to creating what I envisioned.
I used my 1909 Hardinge Cataract lathe to turn a simple aluminum buck that I could use as a mold for the plastic, and heated the caps to their melting point before shaping the molten blob into the form I had designed. My first two attempts weren’t great, but the advantage of polypropylene is that I could keep working it until I was satisfied with the result, and the third attempt was perfect.
Next, I had to consider how this piece could be worn. It didn’t feel right to attach a standard brooch pin on the back to fasten it to the wearer. My work was about creating a new life for this material, no longer in close proximity to a sharp point. I decided on a steel washer fixed to the back with handmade gold screws, allowing the piece to be worn with the aid of a simple magnet. This also left the reverse side blank—an empty canvas for me to engrave the words “Boston, we have a problem,” echoing Apollo 13’s famous call for help known around the world.
As I thought about and worked on this project, I wondered—can my art make a difference in my new community? After I shared a picture of this work on Instagram, I heard from many people who were concerned for my well-being and safety while collecting these discarded needle caps. For every direct message expressing sadness about the opioid epidemic, I received two messages warning me to be careful as I could get sick. It was lovely to feel cared about, and that’s exactly the kind of attention I want this project to redirect. I want people experiencing substance use disorders to be cared about too. I want to make their struggles, which seem as overlooked as the orange caps on the sidewalk, visible to everyone—especially those of us who overlook the details.
One message from a follower stood out more than all the others. She told me that in 2004 she lost her cousin Jimmy, a fellow artist, to an overdose. In remembrance, and to try to make a difference in my community, I plan to create a few more works with this emotionally charged material and name the collection after him. All proceeds will go to a local charity helping those struggling with addiction.
Hydrangea and Hedges Earrings, 2023
Titanium and Silver topped Gold. Emerald and Tsavorite.
Padparadscha and Turquoise Ring, 2023
Rose Gold. Padparadscha Sapphire and Turquoise
Rain or Shine, 2020
Platinum and Silver topped Gold. Sapphire and Diamond.
Summer Pond, 2018
Silver topped Gold. Aquamarine, Tsavorite and Diamond.
Centering a portrait-cut aquamarine weighing 17.75 carats, depicting an oil painted koi pond on mother-of-pearl, bordered by a cobblestone edge of tumbled black diamonds, framed by numerous round tsavorite garnets, the base further set with square-cut and baguette diamonds. Dimensions approximately 2 x 1⅝ inches.
Centering a portrait-cut aquamarine weighing 17.75 carats, depicting an oil painted koi pond on mother-of-pearl, bordered by a cobblestone edge of tumbled black diamonds, framed by numerous round tsavorite garnets, the base further set with square-cut and baguette diamonds. Dimensions approximately 2 x 1⅝ inches.
Winter Pond, 2020
Silver topped Gold. Diamond, Moonstone and Tsavorite.
Centering a portrait-cut rock crystal, depicting a koi pond painted on mother-of-pearl, bordered by a cobblestone edge of tumbled black diamonds, decorated with round diamonds, moonstones, tsavorite garnets and carved cochalong, the base further set with rectangular-shaped gray spinels, square-cut and baguette diamonds, the reverse set with round diamonds. Dimensions approximately 2⅜ x 1¾ inches.
Centering a portrait-cut rock crystal, depicting a koi pond painted on mother-of-pearl, bordered by a cobblestone edge of tumbled black diamonds, decorated with round diamonds, moonstones, tsavorite garnets and carved cochalong, the base further set with rectangular-shaped gray spinels, square-cut and baguette diamonds, the reverse set with round diamonds. Dimensions approximately 2⅜ x 1¾ inches.
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