I didnā€™t grow up anywhere glamorous. South Wales raised me, where metal rusts faster than people heal and nothing stays beautiful unless someoneā€™s lying about it. Modern culture loves a glossy myth; I grew up seeing the cracks first. Iā€™m still that feral council-estate kid with a daisy-chain fixation and a stubborn streak that can dent steel. I write and make because my head would rot if I didnā€™t. No sparkly origin story. No epiphany in a sunlit studio. Just pressure, grief, bad timing, and the habit of turning the wrong things into something worth keeping.

Corrode and Crown isnā€™t a tidy brand arc. Itā€™s the mess I refuse to hide. The black sheep that never bothered to behave. The ugly duckling that realised the goose life suited her better. Everything here comes from lived grit, not curated charm. This is my house. It is stitched together from ruin and memory. Here, the past gets melted down. It is forged into something that actually feels honest.

WHAT Iā€™M BUILDING

Corrode and Crown is where metal, biology, class, grief, and storytelling knot together. A house of rust, pressure, folklore, spite, and stubborn survival. Iā€™m not preaching wellness, authenticity, or any of the buzzwords brands slap on for engagement. I make and write from my own lived landscape. It consists of memory, mood, process, mistakes, and ideas. It’s whatever keeps me from going under.

I lean toward misfits who never fit the mood-boards. People who prefer raw truth over lacquered faƧades. People allergic to beige lifestyle branding. Anyone who understands that beauty without scars is boring, and character matters more than gloss filter.

My jewellery and my writing share the same marrow. The same pressure, the same instinct to survive, the same refusal to stay tidy. Some pieces become essays. Some essays become metal. I donā€™t separate them, because they never arrived that way.

If this world resonates, good.
If it doesnā€™t, oh well.
Corrosion isnā€™t for everyone.

THE METAL

I donā€™t make delicate trinkets.
I make creatures. Relics. Mutations. Armour pretending to be ornament.
They bloom, crust, resist, bite back. Heavy, sculptural little sods with their own moods.

Nothing is mass-produced. Everything so far has been carved by me alone. In the future Iā€™m interested in working with British manufacturers for made-to-order runs or limited casts. And yes, Iā€™ll show that process honestly too, not through soft-focus ā€˜behind the scenesā€™ fluff.

THE BLOG: THE ROT BEHIND THE METAL

I write because the metal canā€™t hold everything.
The blog is where all the extra spillover ends up. This includes essays, fragments, observations, and stories. It also includes working-class bite and thoughts that donā€™t sit still long enough to become objects.

Itā€™s unpredictable.
Sharp.
Sometimes petty.
Sometimes too personal.
Itā€™s the sewer and the shrine of this whole place.
The archive of the world the work crawls out of.

If you want cosy lighting, curated vulnerability, and sterile ā€˜creative journeyā€™ captions, youā€™re lost. This isnā€™t a brand diary. I’m a commoner trying to build something real in a world obsessed with fake polish.

I started common. Stayed feral. After a decade away, I’m stumbling back into the jewellery industry. I donā€™t know if I’m just dipping a toe or drowning on impact.

But fuck it and find out.
ā€” CC