The Materialist : A Podcast from At Present

Marc Bridge and Monica Stephenson, Anza Gems Worldwide Headquarters, Seattle, WAMonica Stephenson is the kind of guest who makes you see a familiar object—one you might already love—like it’s brand new. In this episode of The Materialist, we sit together in her Seattle office overlooking Lake Union and the skyline, and we follow a thread that runs from the jewelry counter in a Midwest college town all the way to artisanal gem mines in East Africa—and then back again, into the hands of the designers and collectors who ultimately give these stones a second life.What unfolds is not just Monica’s career story (though it’s a fantastic one), but a bigger argument about what jewelry can do when it’s treated as both beauty and infrastructure: an object that sparks desire on the surface, and—if you care to go deeper—a vehicle for livelihoods, dignity, and long-term economic power.A retailer’s education: why the “floor” mattersMonica’s origin story is refreshingly unromantic in the best way: she starts in retail in the early 1990s, selling jewelry while studying art history and fine art at the University of Iowa. That experience, she argues, isn’t a detour—it’s the foundation. Retail trains you to listen, to understand what customers actually respond to, and to translate a piece of jewelry into a reason someone chooses to bring it into their life.It’s also where she first feels the pull of what she calls the “small sculpture” quality of jewelry—the idea that a piece can be materially precious, artistically rigorous, and emotionally immediate all at once. She remembers being captivated by the intention and artistry of emerging designers, a shift away from mass-manufactured sameness toward jewelry with a point of view. You flip a bracelet over, she says, and it’s as beautiful on the underside as it is on the top—craft as moral clarity.There’s a personal echo too: Monica didn’t grow up in a jewelry family in the classic sense, but her father worked outside sales for a New York designer and would have merchandise spread across the kitchen table. So the objects were always there—close enough to normalize, just far enough away to remain slightly magical.And then she says something that is both funny and true: we’re all magpies on some level. We like the shiny things. But for Monica, the “bug” goes deeper than sparkle. It’s the entire ecosystem—materials, workmanship, makers, and the people who carry the knowledge. It’s a love affair with process.Tech, jewelry, and the limits of a “flat detail page”From the jewelry counter, Monica’s path bends into the early internet. In the late 1990s she buys the domain for a diamond referral concept and builds what amounts to a matchmaking site connecting consumers to local retailers. It’s an early clue of what becomes a recurring theme in her work: jewelry is relational. It moves through networks of trust, story, and access.That blend of jewelry fluency and tech curiosity leads to a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: Amazon asks her to help launch its jewelry store in 2003. Monica becomes, in her words, “the tech translator to the jewelry industry,” straddling two worlds and learning to speak both languages.What’s especially interesting is her reflection on why Amazon’s vision didn’t fully match the reality. Jewelry can translate to digital—today we have video, richer storytelling, and much better tools for dimensionality and nuance—but at the time, the attempt was to fit a complicated, largely non-branded category into a UPC-driven system. Watches could behave like that. Diamonds and gemstones couldn’t, at least not cleanly. Even within diamonds, there’s real variance from stone to stone, and the effort to “shoehorn” that complexity into a flat product page was harder than it looked.When I ask what she wished the platform could have been, her answer is basically a thesis for modern jewelry commerce: more immersive visuals, more dimensional truth, and more designer storytelling—who made it, why they made it, what the process is, and what’s embedded inside the object beyond its specs. The implication is clear: if you remove story, you remove meaning—and jewelry is meaning-driven.I Dazzle: the closet years and the power of deep storytellingAfter Amazon, Monica steps back for family life, has two daughters, and then—like a lot of high-functioning creatives—hits the point where being “only” a parent isn’t enough for her brain. She needs a creative outlet that isn’t organized around snack time.That’s where I Dazzle returns, this time as a blog. She subscribes to the industry magazines again, starts writing, and—nudged by her husband—channels her ideas into WordPress. What follows is the kind of grassroots editorial work that, in hindsight, feels inevitable: she travels to studios, interviews designers, attends trade shows, reports on trends, and asks the kinds of thoughtful questions that draw people out.One of the most charming moments in the conversation is when the late Cindy Edelstein recognizes Monica across a trade show floor: “You’re I Dazzle,” and tells her she’s required reading. Monica, who has been writing essentially “in a closet” assuming she has seven readers, is suddenly confronted with the reality that she’s built a real audience—and that the industry is listening.Why did it strike a chord? Monica thinks it’s because she was doing something that wasn’t common yet: making the designer and the studio legible. You could see the finished piece, but you couldn’t always access the depth behind it, even in a retail environment. Her blog became a window into the people and the process. It served trade readers and everyday consumers alike, and it sometimes even acted as a matchmaker—connecting retailers to designers, and designers to specific gemstones Monica spotlighted (Tucson DM requests included).It’s also notable how she describes the work: “purely editorial,” not monetized, and financially punishing in the way many truly editorial things are. But she loved it. It was immersive. And it prepared her—without her knowing it—for what came next.The trip that changes everything: “from the dirt to the finger”The hinge point in Monica’s story comes almost by accident: she sees a tweet about a documentary traveling to East Africa to film the journey of a gemstone “from the dirt to the finger.” The premise hits her like lightning. She DMs the organizer. They ask if she wants to come—as the resident blogger, “documenting the documentary.”She does her due diligence, then makes the kind of leap that feels irrational until it becomes destiny: she flies 9,000 miles to the edge of a mine with a group of strangers, having never been to Africa, never been to a source community, never even visited a Montana sapphire mine. It’s the first time she’s seeing the beginning of the supply chain that she’s spent her entire life engaging only at the end.What she finds is not what the average consumer imagines when they hear “mining.” In East Africa, much of the gemstone mining she witnesses is artisanal and small-scale—surface and alluvial work rather than industrial excavation. This isn’t a corporate capital-markets machine with helicopters and sonar. It’s shovels, picks, hand labor, remote terrain, and extreme uncertainty. Miners might work for weeks or months with nothing to show for it. The labor-to-reward ratio is brutal.And yet Monica doesn’t describe it with pity. She describes it with respect: passionate people doing backbreaking work, often as a rational alternative to farming in regions with few options. Many are, in a sense, entrepreneurs—independently funded, operating with minimal infrastructure and limited access to tools, geology, or market knowledge.This is where the episode becomes quietly radical: it reframes the romance of gemstones. The “magic” we associate with a finished stone is real, but the cost of that magic is usually invisible.“We can fix this.” The naïve thought that becomes a real companyMonica returns to Seattle buzzing with adrenaline and ideas. She writes obsessively. Somewhere in that writing, a napkin business plan emerges. Her first thought is naïve in the way all ambitious plans start: the problem is just access—education, opportunity, resources, market connection. If she can connect the dots, then the system can become fairer.By the end of 2014, she has a fully formed model. She names it Anza—Swahili for “begin”—because the whole thing feels slightly insane and totally outside the boundaries of what she’s “qualified” to do. And so she begins.She goes back to East Africa, buys gems at a regional gem market, visits mines, starts building relationships with brokers and dealers, learns export realities, and gradually develops a process. There’s an acknowledgment of the “wild west” element—she’s an unusual buyer in these contexts, a visible outsider, someone not many people have encountered at the market tables. She makes mistakes. Some are costly. But she keeps showing up, keeps buying, keeps investing. Over time, the spectacle becomes credibility.What’s striking is how she describes her approach to cutting: she often gives cutters carte blanche with the rough, allowing them to “work their magic.” That creative trust—miner to cutter to designer—becomes part of Anza’s identity. The brand is known for unusual cutting, and designers are drawn to it because it feels like the stone has lived a full creative life before it ever reaches a jeweler’s bench.And Monica learns the business in the only way you truly can: trial by fire, with live capital, sometimes sweating in the bush. Even valuation isn’t purely rational. Color can be emotional. Sometimes the stone that “should” be most valuable isn’t; sometimes the afterthought becomes the star because it resonates with human desire.Moyo Gems and the work of building a marketAs Anza grows, Monica also becomes central to Moyo Gems (“heart” in Swahili), a collaboration that includes commercial partners and the international NGO Pact, plus partnerships with organizations like the Tanzania Women Miners Association and Kenya’s AFWAK. The project is structured around a clear goal: bring market access to artisanal miners—especially women.This part of the episode is one of the most powerful because it gets specific about what “impact” actually looks like. Monica notes that artisanal miners are marginalized in general, but women miners are doubly excluded—often invisible, literally working on the periphery, combing through tailings. Globally, women may represent roughly a third of artisanal miners; in their region, the estimate is lower. Regardless of the exact percentage, the point is the same: women are present and essential, but structurally pushed away from the power centers of the supply chain.So they create “market days” in villages—multi-day events where miners bring stones and sit across the table from buyers in direct dialogue. There’s no forced selling. Buyers don’t have to purchase everything. But what’s revolutionary is feedback: why a stone does or doesn’t sell, what the market is looking for, what characteristics matter, and how to negotiate with information instead of vulnerability.Monica emphasizes something that feels like a guiding principle: ask, don’t assume. When they ask women miners what they want, the answers aren’t always what outsiders predict. One example: women want mobile payments because it gives them control—no outward sign of a transaction, no one can seize the cash, and the password belongs to them. That’s empowerment through financial privacy.Miners often ask for equipment—excavators, tools—and Monica doesn’t dismiss it, but she also doesn’t romanticize the idea that machinery alone is the answer. She’s increasingly focused on pairing local knowledge with modern geology and practical science, and on what she sees as the biggest lever: market access plus story.A full-circle bracelet: Anna J. and the moment jewelry becomes proofOne story from the episode lands like a punch of joy.A miner named Anna J. is the first registered in their market system and one of the earliest participants. She shows up consistently, mainly with sapphires. Then her name disappears. Monica learns she had a stroke. A year or two later, she returns—speech impaired, physically affected, but mining again because it’s a crucial income source.At a recent market day, Anna arrives smiling, with a pile of sapphires. Monica is able to show her what her stones became: a line bracelet made by designer Emily P. Wheeler, using Anna’s emerald-cut sapphires. Because Monica’s team has worked to keep parcels intact and traceable (including partnerships with cutters willing to preserve provenance rather than mixing stones by size), the bracelet isn’t just “sapphires from Tanzania.” It’s sapphires from Anna.Anna watches the video, zooming in, speechless. Emily shares the story, and the bracelet sells quickly—proof that meaning can move product, and that provenance isn’t merely a compliance exercise. It’s a value generator.When I tell Monica this is “why it’s special,” she agrees—and adds a nuance I love: customers come in different buckets. Some buy because it’s beautiful, period. Some engage moderately with the story. And some are lit up by the story—where it came from, who it touched, what it changed—and that story becomes the reason to buy.She doesn’t judge any of those buyer types. In fact, she frames it as the unique genius of jewelry: it can speak on a purely physical level, but the deeper you go, the more meaningful it can become.Not philanthropy: the case for an economic engineIf there’s a single idea that defines Monica’s mission, it’s this: this is a business, not a charity.She’s blunt about it because she’s seen what happens when the work is framed as philanthropy. Philanthropy can be episodic. People move on. Funding cycles end. Attention shifts. And, in her words, “the continent of Africa is very tired of pure philanthropy.”Instead, Monica is committed to building a sustainable economic foothold—a flywheel where miners have baseline financial security, and then responsibility and long-term improvement can follow. Survival first. Once survival is stabilized, people can invest in better practices, education, equipment, and community outcomes.Her metaphor is perfect: don’t give someone a tractor; create the conditions where they build a business that needs a tractor.She also points to a subtle but profound marker of progress: women moving into broker roles at market tables. Historically, brokers were men—an easier, higher-leverage position that controls information and pricing. Monica describes watching a woman broker sit beside an older woman miner, put her arm around her, and carefully walk through each line of a transaction, helping her count her money and understand exactly what was happening. Monica sees it as the point of it all: women moving from subsistence into authority without losing the uniquely human care that makes communities work.Progress shows up elsewhere too: improvements in local faceting through upgraded equipment, the rise of youth workshops, growing prosperity in the region, and ambitious projects like the GEM Legacy campus that will expand vocational training. And on the business side, Anza itself has become something real: employees, growing demand, daily DMs asking where to buy and how to connect. Ten years ago it was Monica in a closet. Now it’s a functioning engine.What’s next: translating trust into systemsMonica’s next challenge is the one so many mission-driven supply chains face: how do you turn meticulous, relationship-based work into a durable system without losing the soul?She’s hired a compliance and supply chain expert and wants to formalize what Anza has been doing informally but carefully—creating a digital representation of provenance and process that can travel with a stone. They’ve explored blockchain, but implementation at source is hard. The goal isn’t buzzwords; it’s transferability—making it easier for anyone who buys an Anza stone to also inherit the story and the proof.At the same time, she’s committed to the on-the-ground work: continuing to show up, especially for the women miners, and continuing to address challenges that were articulated years ago but remain only partially solved.She ends the episode, fittingly, by talking about what she’s wearing: an extraordinary alexandrite ring, a necklace made for her 30th anniversary that includes many Anza gems, and bracelets made from Tanzanian beads polished by students and assembled by youth artisans. Jewelry as daily reminder. Jewelry as visible progress.And then she points our attention to another group that’s often overlooked: women gem cutters—faceters whose work is math, science, and art at once. They are the antithesis of the “black box” fantasy that a machine spits out a finished gem. Every stone has its own optical reality, its own refractive index and critical angles, its own quirks and inclusions to navigate. The cutter doesn’t just “finish” the stone—they collaborate with it.If you love jewelry, this conversation will make you love it more. And if you’ve ever wondered why certain objects feel “worth it,” Monica offers a compelling answer: sometimes the worth is beauty. Sometimes it’s story. And sometimes it’s the rare case where beauty and story fuse into something that isn’t just lovely to wear—but powerful to participate in.If you want to find Monica, she’s at Anza and on Instagram as I Dazzle—still doing what she’s always done: making the world behind jewelry more visible, more human, and more meaningful. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atpresent.substack.com

Marc Bridge and Randi Molofsky, The Peninsula Beverly HillsThere are people in the jewelry world who write about it, people who sell it, people who design it—and then there’s Randi Molofsky, whose superpower is weaving all of these worlds together. Randi doesn’t simply work in jewelry. She connects miners to designers, designers to retailers, and collectors to pieces that will live on their bodies and in their lives. She is a translator, mediator, curator, and—by her own admission—a sentimentalist with impeccable taste and a love of objects that carry stories.In this episode, recorded in sun-drenched Beverly Hills, we go deep into the heart of contemporary jewelry: where it comes from, how it gets made, who gets to participate, why it costs what it costs, and how personal style—and personal history—shape the objects we choose to carry with us.But we start at the beginning, with a young woman from a small Maryland town who loved fashion magazines and dreamt of a job at Vogue, only to discover a very different world in the pages of National Jeweler.A Connector Before She Had the Language for ItRandi never set out to work in jewelry. She studied journalism, imagined a career in fashion media, and took an interview at a trade publication she’d never heard of. They hired her—“young, passionate, and totally green”—and that job changed everything.As the fashion editor at National Jeweler, she was suddenly immersed in a universe she didn’t know existed:• trade shows• gem-cutting studios• retailers’ back rooms• global supply chains• and, eventually, gemstone mines in AfricaA trip to the Tanzanite mines in Tanzania was a defining moment. Standing at the foothills of Kilimanjaro, meeting miners and witnessing the challenges and humanity embedded in every stone, Randi began to understand jewelry not as a product but as a global system of craft, risk, beauty, and meaning.That perspective—ground-level humanity fused with aesthetic sensitivity—is what shapes her work today.The Jewelry World’s Great Misunderstanding“There’s nothing harder,” Randi says, “than helping a consumer understand where the value in jewelry actually comes from.”We live in a world where you can buy diamonds at Costco. The average consumer sees sparkle, price, maybe the four C’s—not the miners, cutters, alloy-makers, bench jewelers, or the hands the piece passes through before it lands in a box on a dresser.Randi argues that jewelry suffers from an education gap. We romanticize the final object but rarely discuss its life before us. One of her goals—whether mentoring designers or advising retailers—is to bridge that gap:Jewelry is not a commodity. It is a collaboration between earth, craft, culture, and the deeply personal taste of its wearer.The Case for Uniqueness in a Saturated MarketRandi’s agency, For Future Reference, works with emerging independent designers to shape their identity, build collections, manage wholesale, and navigate a retail landscape that has become simultaneously more crowded and more challenging.She tells every would-be jewelry designer the same thing:“Don’t do it.”Not because she doesn’t love this world—she does—but because the cost of entry is enormous, the margins volatile, and the competition intense. Designers fail not for lack of vision, but for lack of support. Randi’s work is to be that support: part strategist, part editor, part therapist, part guardian.She looks for designers whose pieces form their own vocabulary—work that is visually identifiable, that tells a story only its creator could tell. “Authenticity,” she says, “is the only real differentiator left.”Vintage as Liberation: Lowering the Barrier and Raising the JoyIn addition to championing contemporary designers, Randi has built a thriving business sourcing unsigned vintage fine jewelry—pieces made with craftsmanship equal to the old houses but without the brand stamp or the six-figure premiums.Vintage, for Randi, is more than a category. It’s a philosophy:• sustainable• personal• expressive• democratic• endlessly uniqueShe delights in watching a customer discover a 1960s gold ring or a pair of 1980s carved earrings remade into bangles, realizing—often for the first time—that jewelry can be both exceptional and accessible. Vintage also introduces stakes and emotion: “Nothing will haunt you like the vintage you didn’t buy,” Randi jokes (and every collector knows she’s right).To her, the future of jewelry isn’t mass luxury; it’s individualism.Clown Couture, Sentimental Safety, and the Life We Build Around OurselvesRandi’s personal style is bold, colorful, layered, and full of humor—what she calls “clown couture.” Her wardrobe is primarily vintage; her home is filled with handmade objects created by friends; and her jewelry is a living archive of her life.On the day we spoke, she wore a torque necklace strung with nearly a hundred charms—bat mitzvah gifts, pieces of family history, tokens from her travels. Around her wrists and fingers: Harwell Godfrey rings, a Retrovi piece, a luminous opal from Tucson turned by Jade Ruzzo into a drumhead ring, hand-curated gemstone huggies, and her holy-grail vintage Bulgari Serpenti watch.Every piece had a story. Every story had a person.That’s what jewelry is for Randi: connection made visible.What the Jewelry Industry Still Needs to LearnWhen I asked what the industry still gets wrong, Randi answered without hesitation:we don’t tell the story of process well enough.The market is full of extraordinary artists—like Vanessa Fernandez, who alloys her own gold and sculpts every piece by hand—yet consumers rarely see the labor, mastery, and humanity that make these objects precious.The future of jewelry, in Randi’s view, will belong to those who communicate not just what they make, but how and why they make it.What’s NextRandi’s year has been strong—despite gold price shocks, supply-chain chaos, and a market that feels like the Wild West. She is expanding her roster of designers, growing her vintage business in new, not-yet-public ways, and continuing the work she cares most about:• elevating unique voices• protecting independent creators• educating consumers• and helping people find jewelry that genuinely reflects who they areIf you want to follow her world, you’ll find her at ForFutureReference.com, @forfuturereference on Instagram, and on her personal account @randimolofsky, where she posts outfits, vintage finds, and the maximalist joy that strangers in airports now recognize her for.Randi is adding joy to the world—and there’s nothing better than that. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atpresent.substack.com

In this episode of The Materialist, Marc Bridge sits down with celebrity colorist Jenna Perry, the artist behind the signature looks of Kendall Jenner, Bella Hadid, and a generation of “It Girls.” Known for transforming hair into a medium of emotion, identity, and self-expression, Jenna shares how a childhood fascination with her grandmother’s salon visits evolved into one of New York’s most coveted creative businesses.She opens up about the emotional connection between women and their hair, why a haircut after a breakup can feel like therapy, and what it takes to turn artistry into enterprise. From a 600-square-foot East Village studio to a 40-person salon empire, Jenna recounts the leap from stylist to founder—and how she learned to balance artistry, leadership, and brand-building without losing her creative soul.The conversation ranges from the personal to the philosophical: what makes a good collaborator, how celebrity and social media shape trends, and why entrepreneurship is as much an art form as coloring hair. Along the way, Jenna reflects on her love of vintage jewelry, creative friendships, and the quiet satisfaction of building something lasting—piece by piece, client by client, strand by strand.It’s an intimate, high-gloss conversation about creativity, control, and the material culture of beauty. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atpresent.substack.com

If you’ve peeked at modern watch culture in the last few years, chances are you’ve felt Brynn Wallner’s impact—whether you realized it or not. She’s the founder of Dimepiece, the platform that reframed watches through a lens that’s stylish, pop-cultural, and—crucially—women-forward. In our conversation for The Materialist, Brynn unspooled the origin story of Dimepiece, the pandemic moment that sparked it, and why a Cartier on a wrist can carry just as much meaning as a family heirloom or a diploma on the wall.Who Brynn Is—and Why She’s InterestingBrynn came to watches through words. While working on editorial projects at Sotheby’s, she found herself immersed in the mythology of the “greats”—Patek, Audemars Piguet, Rolex—and the pop-cultural stories that made models like the Paul Newman Daytona household names. One problem: in all that coverage, women barely appeared.When the pandemic cost her job, it gave her time. She went to Florida with family, turned 30, and realized she had never once aspired to own a watch. That realization became Dimepiece: first an Instagram moodboard of women (past and present) wearing watches; quickly, a movement. From Princess Diana in a Tank to Rihanna in a Nautilus, Brynn used recognizability to create an accessible on-ramp for new collectors who didn’t speak reference numbers.She blends pop culture fluency with archival curiosity—and she isn’t precious about it. Brynn is the rare voice who can decode a movement, then ask how it looks with your bracelets. She writes for mainstream fashion titles, sits with Swiss brand heads in Geneva, helps private clients source vintage, and now designs: her recent Timex Intrepid “baby diver” collaboration (co-created with dealer Alan Bedwell/Foundwell) scaled a ’95 design down to 36mm with crisp, wearable styling—and promptly sold out.What Dimepiece Changed1) It widened the picture.Dimepiece popularized a simple idea: if you can see women wearing watches—stylishly, contextually—you can picture yourself wearing one too. Instead of “for her” remixes in pink or diamond-festooned minis, Brynn advocated for intention in design: what would a modern woman actually want to wear every day?2) It normalized self-purchasing.In her DMs and interviews, Brynn saw a structural shift: women buying watches to mark promotions, launches, moves, and milestones. The watch as self-made heirloom—not just a gift received—has real cultural weight.3) It reframed how watches are worn.Bracelet stacks next to cases. A Tank with denim. A small diver to the beach. Dimepiece treated watches as part of an outfit, not museum pieces under glass. That styling voice mattered—and brands noticed.4) It nudged brands toward better product.Cartier’s reemergence of the Baignoire on a bangle—explicitly “meant to be stacked”—was designed with women in mind from the start. The secondary-market frenzy that followed proved the point, and other houses (Omega, Hermès) have put real R&D behind smaller mechanical movements rather than reflexive “shrink it and sparkle it.”The Topics We Covered (and Why They Matter)Pandemic acceleration & the waitlist era.From 2020 onward, watches surged alongside art and other “passion investments.” Supply couldn’t (or wouldn’t) match demand; waitlists ballooned; secondary prices spiked. More people paid attention—some for love, many for speculation—and the culture broadened beyond the old forums and trade catalogs.Quartz vs. mechanical, minus the snobbery.Brynn can break down the quartz revolution without turning it into a purity test. The point isn’t to dismiss quartz (or Swatch or Timex); it’s to understand why a movement matters to you—accuracy, romance, serviceability, sustainability, story—and buy accordingly.Styling and agency.Stigma around scratching cases or mixing bracelets is giving way to a wear-your-watch life. That’s not carelessness; it’s use. Patina, in this view, is biography.Heirlooms and meaning.Brynn’s father passed her his 1980s Datejust—an act that subtly rewrote a familiar script (father-to-son). We talked about the way objects carry memory across decades: the watch you buy now can be the most durable thing your family keeps.Buying smarter (and calmer).We got into the collector jargon that can intimidate newcomers—“birth-year watch,” “box and papers”—and landed here: work with trusted sources, focus on quality and condition, and don’t let cardboard + ephemera overshadow the watch itself.From spotting to making.Brynn’s Timex project is meaningful not just because it sold out, but because it models a path: research the archives, find an idea with cultural resonance (JFK Jr.’s 1990s Intrepid), scale and style it for today, price it accessibly, and bring new collectors into the fold.Why Brynn’s Cultural Impact Endures* She made the watch world bigger without dumbing it down. The scholarship is there, but so are Bella Hadid, Spice Girls, and Getty rabbit holes. That blend is the future.* She centered women as protagonists, not props. Not just as recipients of gifts—but as researchers, writers, buyers, curators, and designers.* She bridged media, retail, and product. The same instincts that power a clever Instagram caption can guide a collaboration that sells out and lives on wrists.* She changed how “serious” looks. You can be meticulous about a caliber and still care how it sits with your Carolina Bucci.Where to Start (If You’re Watch-Curious)* Try on everything—from a small steel Cartier Tank Française to a 36mm diver—and notice what you reach for a week later.* Wear it with your life: stack your bracelets, take the beach walk, accept the scratches.* If you’re hunting vintage, prioritize condition and trust over buzzwords.* Mark a milestone for yourself; that’s how heirlooms begin.Explore Brynn’s Universe* Instagram: @dimepiece.co* Features & Interviews: Dimepiece.co* Timex Collaboration: The Intrepid “baby diver” reissue (now sold out—watch the secondary market)If you want to go way down the rabbit hole…* Read Marc’s dissertation on the The Renaissance of the Swiss Watch Industry. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atpresent.substack.com

From a small town in Denmark to a sun-splashed bench in New York’s Diamond District, sisters Joy and Sarah Haugaard (the minds behind Lionheart) have built a jewelry universe where heritage, handwork, and human connection matter as much as gold and gemstones. In this conversation, we cover the origins of their partnership, Joy’s second-chance spark in 2020, the storybook that gave Lionheart its name, the community that sustains them, and why their clients don’t want what everyone else has—they want what feels like theirs.The origin story (and why it had to be the two of them)Raised “like twins,” the Haugaard sisters grew up inseparable—then bi-coastal—until the phone call that snapped them back together. In 2020, after a terrifying health crisis, Joy decided there was no more deferring the dream: she had to create Lionheart, not as a mood board but as a life. Sarah dropped everything in LA, flew to New York, and they got to work—7:00 a.m. to past-midnight, fueled by neighbors’ casseroles and customers’ letters.Why Lionheart—and what it really meansThe name is a promise. As kids, they worshiped Astrid Lindgren’s The Brothers Lionheart—a tale about two siblings who always find each other and face down every challenge, together. That devotion now shapes the brand’s ethos: courage, loyalty, and pieces that are made to live multiple lives.Making the personal, universalJoy learned the craft the old-school way—sales floor to polishing wheel to stone-sorting bench—so Lionheart’s pieces feel deeply lived. Motifs recur: birds (for freedom and their grandmother’s spirit), equestrian emblems (from their childhood around horses), and hefty, sculptural chains and charms meant to stack among the “greats” and still speak in their own voice.The Legacy collection & giving backHorses aren’t just a motif—they’re a mission. The Legacy collection supports 13 Hands, an upstate rescue that rehabilitates abused horses (and hosts veterans with PTSD). One signature pendant (their only regular sterling-silver design, also available in gold) sends 100% of proceeds to the nonprofit. It started as a capsule; it’s now permanent.Who buys Lionheart (and why)Lionheart clients are confident individualists: they might stack Van Cleef and Cartier, but they want one piece that feels like theirs. The Haugaard sisters don’t chase sameness or easy identifiability; they prefer conversation-starting forms, personal stories, and made-for-you tweaks. Social media helps, but what sustains the brand is the human exchange—DMs that turn into appointments, heirloom ideas that become rituals, and the occasional Sephora line-check where a stranger whispers, “Are those Lionheart?”Process, practice, and the editJoy sketches 40–50 pieces; Sarah insists on the story and the edit—eight or so designs to start—then opens the door to bespoke variations. That tension (vision vs. viability) keeps the work bold and wearable. Their grandmother’s lessons guide the ritual: wear your jewelry, love it, respect it—then take it off at night so you can wear it again, for decades.Where this is goingGrowth, yes—but with meaning. The Haugaards want Lionheart remembered not just for weighty gold and luminous stones, but for how the work made people feel: stronger, freer, seen. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit atpresent.substack.com