The Voice of The Work
At Trove, we seek out makers whose work stops you mid-step, pieces that ask something of you before you've even decided to buy them. Christian Nyberg is one of those makers. Based along the southern edge of Lake Michigan in the Indiana Dunes, Christian works entirely outside, year-round, coaxing wood and fire into objects that carry an unusual kind of quiet. We asked him to write about his practice in his own words.
By Christian Nyberg
I work outside. Every day, every season. That's not a romantic detail- it's just the reality of the work. Some days it's bitter cold and the fire is the only thing keeping me functional. Some days it's oppressive heat and the charcoal dust sticks to everything. Rain, wind, sun- it doesn't really matter. The work happens outside because that's where the materials come from, and it feels right to stay close to that.
I live on the southern edge of Lake Michigan, at the Indiana Dunes. Sun, clouds, wind, water, forest- and just beyond all of it, the soft haze of industry on the same horizon. It's a strange and beautiful place. It influences the work, though maybe not in the ways you'd expect. It's less about making things that look like the Dunes and more about absorbing a certain pace. A willingness to wait.
Every morning, after a storm or just a quiet walk through the forest, I'm out there searching. Looking for what the water or wind has left behind. A piece of driftwood softened by long travel. A fallen limb with an interesting geometry. Something the lake decided to let go of. This is where the work begins. Not at the bench, but in the act of paying attention.
Wood has been a companion my whole life, and I'm still surprised by it. Cherry, walnut, driftwood. Each piece comes with its own history, its own story already in progress. My job isn't to overwrite that. It's to listen to it, then push it a little further. Fire is usually what does that. I char the surfaces, let the flame do what flame does, and watch the material transform into something quieter than it started as. The charred surface isn't decoration. It's the result of pressure: elemental, honest, irreversible.
What I'm after, underneath all of it, is a kind of pause. Objects that make you slow down for a second. In a world that's constantly demanding your attention, I find myself drawn to making things that don't demand anything at all. They just sit there, steady and calm, and maybe you notice them, and maybe in noticing them you notice the room, and maybe in noticing the room you notice yourself for a moment.
I'm also drawn to the idea of use. I make functional objects- things you can actually live with. There's a philosophy I keep coming back to, even if I resist putting a tidy name on it: if the only wooden bucket you had to fetch water started to leak, you didn't throw it away and get a new one. You patched it. The copper repair you hammered on doesn't diminish the bucket, it becomes part of it. Part of the story. The repair is honest. It says: this thing was worth keeping.
That's what I'm trying to make. Things worth keeping.
Not because they're precious, but because they're honest, grounded, and quietly alive.
The voice of my work is a confident whisper in a world of unending noise. It doesn't shout or demand or judge. It just invites you to be still for a moment.
That's enough for me.
Christian Nyberg
Indiana Dunes, Indiana
