In my mind, there are generally two approaches to trophy design: one is sculptural and totemic, while the other is more flashy and attention-grabbing. Both are valid. I wanted this trophy to function as a sculpture. I’m inspired by sculptors like Isamu Noguchi, Constantin Brâncuși and Ruth Asawa — artists whose work feels organic and deeply tactile. But because this project was for AZURE, a publication that’s supported my career in a meaningful way, I also wanted the object to maintain some connection to the publication’s visual identity.

The most obvious starting point was to abstract the “A” and “Z.” The typography is bold and graphic, but I tend to gravitate toward softer curves and forms that feel good in the hand, so I wanted to reconcile those two qualities. That led to the idea of two strokes forming a sculptural object. As the design developed, I realized the “A” and “Z” could be read from multiple orientations. Depending on how you hold it, the letters reveal themselves differently, which became really interesting to me.

The cantilever became another defining gesture. I’m not an architect — I’m an industrial designer — but architecture heavily informs my thinking, especially around structure and detail. Once I committed to the cantilever, the project became both more stressful and more interesting. Structurally, it became a problem-solving exercise around balance and deflection, but those challenges are often the most rewarding parts of design.

Eventually, the offset between the two forms emerged from that process. I started sketching extensively, testing different variations and exploring how the forms could intersect structurally while remaining visually light.

Then came the idea of the trophies nesting together into a larger self-supporting sculpture. Conceptually, that resonated with me because the creative industries can feel siloed — firms competing for the same projects, disciplines working independently — but everyone is ultimately connected through a shared creative community. I liked the idea that each trophy could exist individually while also being part of a larger whole. Hopefully, when recipients interact with them at the gala, there’s an opportunity for those connections to become tangible.

Pretty early on, I landed on sand-cast aluminum. Partly because I don’t think anyone has done a sand-cast trophy before — especially for an architecture and design awards program, where trophies tend to be highly polished and refined. What interested me about sand casting is that it’s impossible to remove the human hand from the process.

The alloy used is aluminum 356, which also felt meaningful to me as a Canadian designer because aluminum is such an important local material. I wanted to work with a smaller foundry where the process could remain hands-on and collaborative, so I worked with a foundry in my hometown of Cambridge, Ontario. It’s a rugged operation, which is what I love about industrial design.

Sand casting also produces subtle variations between pieces. The cooling process changes the surface texture, porosity and lettering from trophy to trophy. At a certain point, I realized I didn’t want to erase those differences. I wanted each object to feel unique. I actually started embracing imperfections more intentionally. At one point, I was tumbling the pieces to unify the finish, then deliberately introducing marks and texture back into the surface because I didn’t want them to feel over-refined.

The final object has this industrial quality to it. It almost resembles galvanized steel — something architectural and familiar — while still existing as a sculptural form.

I’m definitely a form-based designer, and lately I’ve found myself moving toward a more analog approach early in the process. As design imagery becomes increasingly difficult to distinguish from renders, I’ve become more interested in the human qualities of sketching and making by hand. I prefer that to beginning directly in CAD, because curves generated by the hand feel fundamentally different from mathematically perfect curves. There’s something more innate and human about them.

I started with quick physical studies in basswood and balsa wood just to understand proportion and weight. Because I draw at scale, I can also physically compare my hand against the drawing as I work. Then, I photographed the sketch and moved into 3D printing prototypes so I could test the curves and ergonomics more directly.

I handed the prototypes to friends and colleagues with different hand sizes just to see how people naturally interacted with them. The goal was always to create something that people instinctively want to keep touching. Structurally, the base dimensions also had to support the cantilever, so there was a lot of technical problem-solving happening underneath what ultimately appears to be a fairly simple object.

I’ve worked with sand casting before, although typically in bronze rather than aluminum. With this project, there was an element of working from experience while also allowing room for experimentation. We built the match plate, completed an initial test cast and realized pretty quickly that the material qualities were working in the way I hoped.

From there, the process became very hands-on. Each piece had to be hand-filed, palm-sanded and wire-wheeled. Then I started experimenting with tumbling media and timing to soften the finish while still retaining some reflectivity.

Eventually, I began using museum-grade wax to bring light back into the surface and improve the feel in the hand. Right now, I’m still hand-waxing and buffing every piece individually. Each casting also varies slightly, which I didn’t want to lose. This isn’t die-casting or investment casting — the variations are part of what makes the process meaningful. There are so many stages where the object evolves physically through touch and handling. That was important to me.

Definitely. Lately, I’ve been trying to take bigger formal risks. Earlier in my career, I approached design more methodically — almost like solving a rubric. But that often led to work that felt overly referential. Now, my process starts much more intuitively. I sketch loosely and look for forms that feel slightly unresolved or surprising. Usually, when a form makes me uncomfortable initially, that’s a sign there’s something interesting there worth pursuing.

Materials like sand casting support that kind of process because they introduce unpredictability. They’re less about precision and more about dialogue between the designer, the material and the process itself. I’m exploring similar ideas right now in glass work as well — thinking about how materials react, how forms evolve and how objects can retain evidence of the making process.

I think everyone is grappling right now with the rise of AI in creative industries. Personally, I’d prefer AI to remain outside the creative core of design, even if it becomes unavoidable elsewhere. With this project, I wanted to demonstrate that it’s still worth doing things the tough way. I hope people can feel the labour, experimentation and human decision-making embedded in the object.

What makes creative work meaningful is the dialogue between people — between designer and publication, between maker and material. That friction and exchange is where interesting ideas emerge. For me, the value of an object like this lies in the fact that a person made it.