Future Abalone Variations

I’ve been deep in the planning phase for a new set of abalone works lately—the kind of slow, satisfying planning where the research is part of the art, and decisions start stacking into something that feels inevitable. The Abalone Variations are some of my favorite pieces I've ever made, and I'm excited to revisit the series.

It started the way a lot of my work starts: with a material I can’t stop thinking about. Abalone has this shifting, oil-slick-to-pearl kind of light that refuses to sit still. It’s flashy, yes, but it’s also geological and patient. The more I looked at it, the more I wanted to treat it less like “pretty surface” and more like a specimen—something you build a careful context around so it can speak in a quieter, more precise voice.

So I went into research mode. Not just “look at images,” but really thinking about how abalone reads across different contexts: natural history collections, jewelry display, devotional objects, shadowboxes, framed relics. I kept notes on what made certain presentations feel cheap versus reverent, what kinds of spacing made the material breathe, and how different lighting angles changed the temperature of the sheen. I paid attention to the way abalone can slip into “coastal décor” shorthand—and how to steer it back toward something stranger, more intentional, more mine.

Then came the planning-as-architecture part: measuring, sketching, mock layouts, and lots of tiny decisions that aren’t tiny at all.

I’ve been mapping each piece around three overlapping systems:

1. Composition and series logic

   
   

   I want the new works to feel related without being repetitive—like variations that share a grammar. That means planning how many shells per piece, how dense the field is, whether the work reads as constellation, grid, specimen tray, or something more narrative. I’m also thinking about scale strategically: a few works that can stand alone, and a few that can operate as a tight cluster.

   
   

2. Presentation decisions (framing, matting, plaque)

   
   

   I’m making framing and matting choices early—because for abalone, presentation isn’t an afterthought. It’s part of the meaning.

   • Matting: I’m leaning toward mats that feel like a quiet boundary rather than a decorative element—something that holds space and keeps the abalone from visually “spilling” into the room. I’ve been considering texture (linen/suede vs. smooth), warmth (soft natural whites vs. deep rich color), and how the mat color shifts the abalone’s highlights.

   • Framing: I keep coming back to frames that read as protective structure: clean, deliberate profiles that don’t compete with the material’s movement. I want the frame to feel like the edge of a display case—subtle, but confident. I've even been considering ornate frames for some pieces to feel like true shore relics.

   • Plaques: This has been unexpectedly important. A plaque can tip a piece into “craft fair label” territory fast, but it can also anchor the work in a way that feels archival. I’m experimenting with whether a plaque belongs at all, and if it does, what it should say: title only, title + materials, edition notes, maybe even a quiet catalog-number vibe. I like the idea of a plaque as a kind of whisper: information, not branding. IPAF recently got new plaque samples from our supplier and I've been staring longingly at the script engraved on brass. It feels correct.

     
     

3. Planning around applications (without letting them dictate everything)

   
   

   I’m also building the works with future opportunities in mind—not by chasing trends, but by being smart about practical constraints. Some opportunities require specific outside dimensions, or a certain level of finish and “ready to hang” professionalism. Some prioritize cohesion in a body of work. Some demand clean documentation rules (no distracting backgrounds, no frame glare, no ambiguity about scale). So while I’m not naming any names, I am letting those realities influence the choices I make now: the sizes I’m committing to, how standardized the presentation is across the series, and how quickly I can photograph and submit without scrambling at the last minute.

The most interesting part, honestly, is how these planning layers start to feed each other. Research informs composition. Composition demands certain mat margins. Mat margins nudge frame size. Frame size determines what’s feasible for different contexts. And somewhere in that loop, the work becomes less like an idea and more like an object with a future.

I think that’s what I love about planning: it’s not procrastination. It’s a kind of devotion. It’s me building the conditions for the abalone to be seen clearly—on my own terms, with enough structure that the material can do what it does best: catch the light, shift, and refuse to be reduced to a single surface.

kat