Every piece of handmade jewelry carries a story long before it finds its wearer. Some stories begin with inspiration. Others begin with decades of quietly refining a craft.

When people see one of my finished slide pendants, they usually see a small silver thistle resting quietly against a chain.

What they don't see are the countless little decisions hidden inside it.

This pendant is the result of a technique I've been refining for more than twenty years, ever since I first discovered precious metal clay in 2004. Like many artists, I still find that one of the greatest joys of making is that there is always something new to learn, another edge to soften, another detail to improve, another way to let the craftsmanship disappear into the finished piece.

This little thistle has become one of my favorite designs, not only because of its symbolism of resilience and quiet strength, but because it carries so much of that journey within it.

The front of the pendant is created from one of my wax seal stamps, while the reverse is impressed with a flexible texture sheet designed especially for precious metal clay artists.

Even before the silver exists, I'm thinking about both sides of the piece. I love creating jewelry that feels complete from every angle, rewarding the wearer with beautiful details whether someone catches a glimpse of the front or turns it over in their hand.

Every slide pendant begins as two carefully rolled sheets of precious metal clay.

The construction itself is a technique I first learned nearly twenty years ago. During one of my earliest metal clay classes, I discovered that by separating two sheets of clay with something as simple as a toothpick, I could create a hollow form. After firing, the toothpick burns away completely, leaving a hidden channel through the center of the pendant so the chain can slide freely through it.

I remember being absolutely delighted by that discovery.

My earliest versions worked...

...but they also announced exactly how they had been made.

The seams where the two pieces of clay met were obvious, and while I loved the technique, I knew it could become something more elegant.

Over the years, I found myself becoming less interested in simply making the construction work and more interested in making it disappear. Every pendant taught me something about refining the edges, balancing thickness, and integrating the structure into the overall design until the construction became almost invisible.

That quiet refinement is something I still enjoy chasing today.

Once the clay has dried completely, it's ready for one of my favorite moments in the process.

Into the kiln it goes.

Inside the kiln, the organic binder burns away while the microscopic silver particles fuse together into solid fine silver. The pendant shrinks as it fires, becoming smaller, denser, and permanently transformed. It's like alchemy.

It's still one of those magical moments that never loses its wonder, even after hundreds of firings. 

One of the things I love about working with precious metal clay is that temporary things often make permanent beauty possible.

The toothpick that created the hidden channel burns away in the kiln, sometimes leaving behind the most delicate remnant of ash, like a stick of incense after it has finished burning. By the time the pendant reaches the tumbler, that fragile trace is ready to fall away, like the ghost of what was once there. It quietly does its job and leaves behind only the space the necklace chain needs.

Sometimes the simplest materials become invisible collaborators. 

Fresh from the kiln, the pendant looks almost ghostly white. This is pure fine silver before polishing or oxidation.

The details are all there, but they haven't quite come to life yet. 

Seeing the back after firing is always just as satisfying as seeing the front.

Because I choose textures for both sides, turning the pendant over feels almost like discovering a little secret that's meant just for the wearer.

The next step is burnishing.

This begins compacting the surface of the silver and bringing out its natural glow before the darker patina is added.

If you look very closely at this photograph and the next, you might notice something unexpected peeking out from the hidden channel.

That tiny silver "flower" isn't actually part of the pendant at all!

It's a little Bali-style sterling silver spacer bead that somehow found its way into the opening while several pieces were tumbling together. Thankfully, this unexpected passenger was easily persuaded to come back out with a pair of tweezers.

One of the little reminders that handmade work always has a few stories of its own.

I often say that metal clay has a personality. Every firing is slightly different. Every piece responds a little differently to polishing.

Even when I make the same design repeatedly, no two pendants are ever completely identical. I wouldn't want them to be.

After burnishing, the pendant is oxidized. At this stage it looks dramatically darker than the finished piece, but that's intentional.

The patina settles into every tiny recess, emphasizing details that would otherwise disappear.

The same happens on the reverse side.

All of those delicate textures begin revealing themselves through light and shadow.

It's one of those stages that looks almost too dark—but experience has taught me to trust the process.

The rough polishing removes the oxidation from the raised surfaces while leaving it nestled deep within the details.

Suddenly the thistle seems to emerge from the silver.

This penultimate stage is where decades of practice quietly make a difference. Knowing exactly how much to polish, and just as importantly, when to stop, is one of those things that's difficult to teach and only comes with experience.

By the time the pendant is finished, the final step of burnishing the pendant so that it shines softly with a mellow glow, very little of the construction remains visible.

The toothpick is long gone. The seams have disappeared into the design.

All that's left is a small silver pendant ready to become part of someone's everyday life.

People sometimes ask why handmade jewelry costs more than something produced by the thousands.

For me, the answer isn't simply the silver.

It's the years hidden inside the piece.

It's twenty years of refining a technique until the construction disappears.

It's learning how silver behaves in the kiln, how light catches an oxidized surface, and how tiny adjustments made over hundreds of pieces slowly become instinct.

When someone wears one of my thistle slide pendants, they see a small silver thistle resting quietly against a chain.

What they don't see are all of the temporary things that made it possible, the toothpick that burned away, the countless refinements made over two decades, and the invisible decisions that quietly disappear into the finished piece.

I think that's one of the things I love most about handmade work.

So much of the artistry becomes invisible.

What remains is simply a piece that feels effortless, carrying years of experience within it.

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About this piece

This thistle slide pendant was handcrafted in my Silver Spring, Maryland studio from fine silver using precious metal clay. Every piece I create is made in small batches and carries its own subtle character and story.

If you'd like to see the finished pendant or explore more handmade talismans inspired by nature, transformation, and everyday magic, you can find them here.

View the thistle slide necklace