Interviews with Ekaterina Korzh

My first professional background was not of design. I spent around 8 years on studies and research in geography when I realized that I need to admit that I need to switch my career path and to do product and jewelry design. It didn't occur in an empty place, of course, because of all my life of learning and practicing different crafts and arts. At that moment, five years ago I started studying silversmithing in a small town of Tabio in Colombia during my research project. In two years, I was already admitted to the School of Art and Art History at the University of Iowa. There I took my first classes in product and furniture design. I established my own brand "korzhstudio" during these studies. Now I don't see my life without designing a new object every day.

Informed by my background in geography, my work employs an observational and inquiring perspective on the world that I retained from this education. In my jewelry, I create micro-landscapes by combining metal work with found stones, objects, and precious materials. But my priorities are still aesthetics and comfortable wear of my products

Complete calm. It's almost like a meditation. But it also important to stop at the right time or you will start ruining everything because you are tired or stuck. It is never a good idea to enforce yourself when you are designing something. The right design will come soon or later.

Everything in my pas shaped me as a designer: studying geography, craft classes, travels, international experience. I think the main skill that helps me to reach this point is my curiosity for life, nature, and world in general.

In korzhtudio, I am mainly producing jewelry based on my designs. In the future, I plan to widen the assortment to other products that I like to design such as furniture and lighting design. Also, I want to shift my production on outsourcing to have more free time for design ideas.
I am practicing both goldsmithing and 3D technologies right now. They do not intercept yet in my work but I hope it will happen in the future. So, I would say I still love to use traditional metal work but at the same time I design a lot of interior products in Rhinoceros and Fusion. I think these platforms are the best.

Sketch, sketch and sketch even if you don't have an opportunity to develop your project you should draw it on paper. That was major advice from my first jewelry teacher Francisco Jose Pineros.

Just keep going, practicing and learning.

I wake up and usually do yoga or run. Then I have breakfast and check my to-do list and schedule. After that, I spend most of my day in my metalwork shop developing my jewelry. In the evening I work on social marketing and photography of my final products.

I think the design trends create some atmosphere in culture and people feel that today's environment consists of some particular elements. It all affects contemporary designs and styles. Trends exist and change just because of human history evolve.

Aesthetics and usability should be balanced

When I feel that aesthetically it is balanced

A set of furniture made of plywood and fabric. It was a set of one coat rack, a chair, two stools, and a side table.

Iris van Herpen, Zaha Hadid, Ilgiz Fazulyanov, René Lalique, jewelery house Hemmerle

I love to travel and to get to know new people and places. After backpacking trips, I have the biggest inspirations for my designs.

I'm producing my products myself and just sometimes use outsource to develop some parts of my projects. I just can say that I am lucky to be surrounded by such good makers and people

In my designs, I use recycled silver and trying to be eco-friendly with all materials and resources that use. No excessive use of materials or energy

It gives your lots of new experiences within the design world

I focused on creating a dialogue between the past and present, merging traditional craft with contemporary concerns like environmental sustainability. I wanted the work to feel both personal and universal, inviting the wearer to reflect on cultural roots, transformation, and impermanence.

I plan to expand it into a larger collection that further explores modularity and material reuse. I’m also interested in exhibiting it in both art jewelry galleries and design contexts to bridge the gap between art and wearable design.

The concept evolved over several months, including research, experimentation, and iteration. However, the seed of the idea—upcycling old materials into meaningful jewelry—has been growing for years through various projects.

It was self-initiated, driven by a deep personal need to make sense of memory and displacement through materials. The design allowed me to channel my inspiration from folk rituals and ecological thinking into something tactile and poetic.

I produce all of my work myself, either as one-of-a-kind pieces or small editions. I value the intimacy of making and the control it gives me over materials and narrative integrity.

Jewelry, to me, is a powerful vehicle for storytelling. Its scale makes it intimate and its presence on the body allows it to act as a portable symbol—almost like a personal shrine or amulet. That’s why I’m drawn to this format for expressing identity and heritage.

I’m influenced by both historical Slavic ornaments and contemporary conceptual jewelers who explore materials in unconventional ways. I also find inspiration in folk artifacts, textile patterns, and ceremonial objects.

My ideal customer is someone who values craftsmanship, sustainability, and symbolism—someone who sees jewelry as more than adornment, but as a statement or personal talisman.

The combination of cultural storytelling, sustainable practice, and emotional depth gives my design a unique voice. Each piece carries layers of meaning—mythical, ecological, and autobiographical.

I often use poetic or folkloric titles. One of my recent series was titled "There Are More Fairies Further From Home..."—a reflection on exile, belonging, and enchantment. The name suggests both displacement and the magic of adaptation.

I use a mix of traditional metalsmithing tools, ceramic techniques, and digital sketching software. I also incorporate non-traditional materials, utilizing glass heat-fusing and mixed-media assemblage techniques.

Its hybrid nature: it exists at the intersection of fine art, folklore, and environmentalism. The use of waste materials to tell sacred or ancestral stories gives the work a haunting beauty.

While most of my work is created independently, I do occasionally consult with ceramicists and sustainable material experts, especially when scaling up or exploring new techniques.

Technology plays a minor but essential role—especially in the planning phase. I use digital sketching and sometimes CAD software for mockups, but the actual making is mostly analog and tactile.

Yes, I conducted ethnographic and visual research into Slavic paganism, as well as material research on biodegradable and recycled elements. The work is heavily influenced by cultural symbolism and mythological archetypes.

Balancing fragility with wearability was a challenge—especially when working with delicate or unconventional materials. Another challenge was ensuring that recycled elements were safe, clean, and durable enough for jewelry.

I believe the themes of my work—sustainability, cultural identity, and interdisciplinary craft—resonate globally. Submitting to an international competition felt like a natural step to share these ideas with a broader audience.

I became more attuned to the emotional resonance of materials—how even a piece of plastic can carry symbolic weight when contextualized thoughtfully. I also grew technically, learning to adapt fragile materials for functional wear.

Yes—my work is not only about making objects but about crafting experiences. I often present my jewelry within installations or as part of performative narratives. This multidisciplinary approach is central to my creative identity.

My studio practice operates as a hybrid between a jewelry atelier and a conceptual art space. While I produce wearable pieces, I also develop large-scale installations and sculptures centered around jewelry. My work is currently represented by Phoenix Gallery, and I often collaborate with institutions, curators, and craft centers for exhibitions, workshops, and residencies. I design and fabricate everything myself, using a mix of traditional and unconventional materials—from recycled plastics and glass to natural fibers and precious metals.

For me, design is storytelling through structure. It’s the ability to shape emotional, cultural, and material experiences into a tangible form. It’s not just about how something looks or functions—it’s about what it communicates and how it affects people. In my practice, design is also a form of activism and healing—a way to recover erased narratives and celebrate overlooked traditions.

I’m most passionate about creating jewelry that transcends decoration—pieces that evoke ritual, identity, and memory. I love designing works that feel like modern relics, embedded with stories and contradictions. Jewelry that uses sustainable materials to reference historical forms especially excites me—it feels like creating a time-traveling object.

The Traditional Parure Jewelry Set is one of my favorite and most meaningful works. It blends archival research, personal narrative, and experimental material practice. It was also a technical challenge and a spiritual journey—reviving cloisonné methods, weaving and knotting cotton, fusing glass and metal, all to tell a story of cultural loss and reclamation. Winning the A’ Design Award for this set has been incredibly affirming.

Actually, a staircase design

Found objects and textile-based components are my favorites because they invite imperfection and storytelling. I also deeply enjoy hand-painted enameling—a slow, meditative process that requires patience and precision. It feels like a ritual in itself.

I feel most creative when I'm in the midst of research or storytelling—reading folklore, handling archival objects, or experimenting with new material combinations. The studio becomes a laboratory, a sanctuary, and a time capsule all at once.

I prioritize narrative cohesion, material integrity, and emotional resonance. I want every part of the piece—its texture, color, weight, and construction—to feel intentional and communicative.

It ranges from curiosity and obsession to frustration and joy. Designing can be a deeply emotional process for me—it’s where I process cultural longing and personal memory. At times it feels like a prayer, at others, like a puzzle.

There’s always a mix of awe and vulnerability. Seeing a concept become a physical object is exhilarating, but it also feels intimate, like exposing a piece of my inner world to the public. The pride comes not just from how it looks, but from what it represents.

When it resonates emotionally, ethically, and visually. A successful design, to me, tells a layered story, respects its materials, and connects with people in unexpected ways.

I first look at intention and execution—what the piece is trying to say and how clearly and responsibly it communicates that. Material choice, form, innovation, and emotional impact also weigh heavily.

Designers shape culture, and with that comes responsibility. We must consider sustainability, inclusivity, and the preservation of tradition. Our work can perpetuate harm or spark healing.

Design is becoming more interdisciplinary and socially conscious. I see the future of design as circular, decolonized, and regenerative—focused not just on consumption, but on restoration and connection.

My most recent exhibition was “There Are More Fairies Further from Home...”—a solo show featuring large ceramic and jewelry-based sculptures. I’m currently planning my next solo exhibition around ritual adornment and Slavic mythology.

Folklore, memory, displacement, and ecological materials. I read mythology, study ethnographic archives, and experiment with discarded objects. My Slavic heritage is a wellspring of symbolic imagery.

My style is poetic, hybrid, and referential. It blends folk ornament, post-Soviet nostalgia, and contemporary eco-ethics. It's tactile, layered, and emotionally resonant—rooted in both research and intuition.

I don't live anywhere longer than 2-4 years. Then I keep moving. For example, I live in the U.S., but I'm leaving it soon. I always miss my home, but when I'm there, I want to travel again. Living abroad sharpens my awareness of cultural loss and belonging. It drives me to preserve and reinterpret my heritage through design.

I typically collaborate through limited-edition collections or concept development. I value creative freedom and alignment on sustainability and cultural sensitivity.

Trust the creative process and choose designers whose values align with your brand. Support slow design and ethical production methods—it results in deeper, more impactful work.

It begins with research—historical, symbolic, and material. Then sketching, prototyping, and slow, hands-on experimentation. It’s very iterative and emotionally driven. The piece reveals itself over time.

Vintage traveling chest
Pink porcelain tea cup from the UK
A ceramic artist's vase that celebrates a body-positive female body
A 3D-printed lamp I designed
A ceramic sculpture from my last exhibition

I start with quiet time—reading or journaling. Mornings are for studio work: fabricating, chasing, or enameling. Afternoons often involve research, grant writing, or teaching. Evenings, I sketch or walk for inspiration.

Stay curious and don’t be afraid to slow down. Follow what moves you emotionally. Learn your materials deeply. Design is a language—make sure you have something meaningful to say with it.

Positives: creative freedom, emotional expression, and the ability to influence culture.
Negatives: financial uncertainty, emotional exhaustion, and the pressure to constantly innovate.

Let the materials and the story lead. Never design for trend—design for truth.

Critical thinking, empathy, storytelling, adaptability, and patience.

Rhino 3D, hand tools for metalsmithing, enamel kiln, sketchbooks, Slavic mythology books, archives, and found material boards. Also, lots of experimental materials!

I work in focused blocks with long breaks for reflection. I’m intentional about rest—creative burnout is real. Lists and rituals keep me grounded.

Anywhere from two weeks to several months, depending on complexity and material exploration.

“Where did you find this material?” or “Is this piece wearable or art?”

Creating and curating my solo show during my MFA. It pushed every boundary—technical, emotional, and intellectual—and taught me to trust my voice.

Private collectors, curators, art galleries, and museums. Also, people who value sustainable, meaningful jewelry as wearable art.

Conceptual jewelry that ties personal history to collective identity. It allows for deep storytelling and material play.

Expand my parure collection, publish the relation between politics and jewelry art, and apply for international residencies to deepen my research.

Primarily solo, though I collaborate with other jewelers and historians for specialized skills or research support.

Yes—a series of enameled earrings that feature native Kansas rocks that are commonly used here at parking lots, but they carry tons of prehistoric fossils. I shape and polish them to install them into a fine jewelry шусуы

People can reach me via my instagram @korzhstudio, or through my email: e.s.korzh@gmail.com

Yes—jewelry is a political object. It’s never just about beauty. It’s about who gets to tell their story, and how we carry our past into the future.

Each piece in the parure functions as a wearable relic, evoking both reverence and resistance. In Russia, craft traditions were historically entangled with state narratives—used to project ideals of power, unity, and cultural supremacy. My reinterpretation seeks to peel back those layers. For instance, the Celebration Tiara adopts the formal geometry of Soviet festive regalia but subverts its meaning through the use of fragile materials and hand-finished imperfections. It critiques the spectacle of authoritarian aesthetics. The Ojerelok neckpiece, with its raw linen canvas and exposed stitching, references the everyday labor of peasant women, elevating their silent histories over state-manufactured icons. The faux amber piece plays with nostalgia—mimicking the prized material of Soviet elite jewelry—but made from recycled waste. These subtle disruptions embedded within traditional formats question the authenticity of national myths while reclaiming the value of vernacular, feminine, and eco-conscious voices within Russian culture.

The material choices were driven by symbolic resonance and narrative layering. Fine silver represents ceremonial formality and carries the weight of tradition—it’s the surface on which authority has often been etched. But I balanced this with modest and tactile materials like cotton cord and glass to insert a counter-narrative. Cotton cord, often used in domestic crafts, reflects labor traditionally excluded from "high" art. The contrast of softness and preciousness allowed me to question whose hands are remembered in history. Additionally, the use of paper elements, stitched textiles, and scorched or aged finishes evokes the ephemerality of memory, particularly cultural memory that has been manipulated or erased. This hybrid materiality forces a reevaluation of what we consider "valuable," both in terms of materials and narratives. The tiara becomes a microcosm of a nation in tension—ornate yet frayed, unified yet splintered.

One of the most striking discoveries was the role of pre-Christian symbolism in Northern Russian jewelry, particularly in coming-of-age and marital rites. Symbols such as the goddess Makosh or sun motifs appeared not merely as decorative elements but as talismans, deeply embedded with spiritual protection and agricultural cycles. These motifs endured even through centuries of Orthodox Christian influence and Soviet suppression. Another influential finding was that many traditional parures weren’t made with precious metals but rather with felt, leather, and copper—materials tied to everyday life and survival. This challenged the modern assumption that tradition equals opulence. It gave me permission to prioritize meaning over luxury in my material choices. Also, the performative nature of wearing these items—in rituals and public celebrations—inspired me to treat each piece as a stage for memory, rather than as an inert object.

Amber is an emotionally charged material in Eastern Europe—it represents warmth, ancestry, and economic value. However, the mining and commercialization of amber are both environmentally and politically fraught. I became fascinated by the idea of counterfeiting amber—not to deceive, but to provoke. By using recycled brown and yellow-tinted glass, I could mimic the appearance of amber while deliberately subverting its perceived value. This became a commentary on false nostalgia: what appears “authentic” may in fact be a reconstruction. The technique required developing a cold-working method to shape and polish the glass without introducing excessive heat, which might fracture its internal stress points. I also introduced internal imperfections—like trapped fibers or bubbles—to echo natural amber's organic inclusions. This process turned waste into luxury while reframing the conversation around what luxury should signify.

The most challenging moments were during the cloisonné-on-glass experiments. It’s an unstable marriage—glass and enamel expand at different rates, and I lost many pieces to hairline fractures or complete collapse in the kiln. There were weeks of failure, which taught me to accept unpredictability as part of the process. Conversely, the most rewarding moment came unexpectedly—when I stitched the final element of the Ojerelok and realized that every material, symbol, and imperfection was now in harmony. The piece wasn’t just beautiful—it was alive with meaning. Another breakthrough was emotional: as I assembled the set, I began to see how my own displaced identity as a Ukrainian-Russian émigré could find reconciliation through this work. I wasn’t just recreating history; I was healing it.

I believe that heritage jewelry can no longer afford to be static or purely decorative. As global crises challenge the meaning of culture, designers must move beyond replication and toward reinterpretation. I hope this work signals a shift toward “critical heritage design,” where the past is not just celebrated but interrogated. My approach encourages designers to treat tradition as a living, adaptable language—one that can speak to environmental concerns, diasporic identity, and feminist critique. I also envision more collaborative and interdisciplinary work in this field, blending historical research with sustainable innovation, community engagement, and even activism. In that sense, the future of heritage jewelry lies in its ability to be uncomfortable, to raise questions, and to act as a form of embodied storytelling rather than ornamental nostalgia.

Balancing authenticity and wearability required rethinking both function and symbolism. The original ojerelok was a multi-strand textile neckpiece worn primarily during rituals, not designed for comfort or durability in modern contexts. My reinterpretation maintains the visual vocabulary—layered cords, woven base, central pendant—but adapts the construction. I used soft cotton cord with a reinforced internal wire structure to maintain shape without weight. Linen canvas was backed with interfacing to provide stability while preserving its organic texture. All components are modular, allowing for partial assembly or full parure display. This flexibility honors the performative aspect of the original while acknowledging today’s need for ease and adaptability. The piece is wearable, but not passive—it invites the wearer to engage in its narrative, almost like putting on a memory.

I was deeply moved by the idea that jewelry once marked transformative life events—becoming a woman, joining a household, bearing a child. In reframing these traditions, I asked: What does coming of age mean today, especially for women in post-Soviet or diasporic communities? My pieces function as rites of passage but on new terms—celebrating autonomy, resilience, and personal myth-making rather than social conformity. Through recycled materials and hybrid forms, I transform these objects into tools for contemporary identity. They invite wearers to invent new rituals while remembering old ones, to celebrate not only where they’re from but who they’ve become.

I hope it serves as a bridge, connecting young designers and audiences to a rich but often overlooked heritage. Many traditional Russian crafts are endangered, not because of a lack of beauty, but due to a lack of relevance. By recontextualizing them through contemporary design language and sustainability, I aim to spark renewed interest and dialogue. I also see this work as a call to action: to decolonize craft history, uplift vernacular traditions, and embrace imperfection and reuse as strengths. If even one student or maker is inspired to see cultural inheritance as a source of innovation, then the work has done its job.