Gold, Grit, and Growth: Why I Work with Organic Materials like Mushroom Burrs, Crystals, Living Plants, and 24k Gold
- blairricker
- Jun 9
- 3 min read
When people first encounter my work, they often ask: Why mushrooms? Why crystals? Why gold?
The answer isn’t just about aesthetics—it’s about alchemy. Not the kind that turns lead into literal gold, but the transformation of wounds into wisdom, chaos into creation. I choose my materials not just for their visual texture but for what they carry in silence: stories of survival, decay, resilience, and rebirth. Each element in my work is a metaphor, a vessel of meaning. Together, they speak the language of trauma and healing—the raw, organic, and often messy journey back to wholeness: gold, grit, and growth.
Mushroom Burrs: The Alchemy of Decay
Mushrooms are neither plant nor animal; they are the in-between. Burrs cling like memories—small, persistent, often unnoticed until they prick the skin. Together, they form a poetic metaphor for trauma.
Fungi are nature’s recyclers. They take rot, death, and waste and turn it into fertile ground. That, to me, is the essence of post-traumatic growth. The burrs, with their grip and tangle, remind me how trauma sticks, how it hides in our daily fabric. But mushrooms teach us that decay is not the end. It's a beginning. It’s the place from which something unexpected can bloom.
When I sculpt with fungal forms or incorporate burrs, I’m speaking to the resilience in us all—the capacity to compost our grief into something fertile.
Crystals: Structure from Chaos
Crystals form under pressure, deep within the Earth, in dark places where no one is watching. If that’s not a metaphor for resilience, I don’t know what is.
Each crystal has a geometry—order forged from entropy. They are reminders that beauty doesn’t come despite pressure, but because of it. I use crystals to honor structure, clarity, and the internal architecture that trauma can sometimes shatter and healing slowly rebuilds. But beyond the sparkle and symmetry, crystals whisper about time. They grow slowly, in silence. And so does healing.
Living Plants: The Pulse of Becoming
There’s something radical about including something alive in an artwork. Living plants breathe, change, and decay. They are never still. They ask for care. They demand presence.
In my work, plants symbolize the non-linear nature of healing. Growth isn’t clean or quick. Sometimes a leaf yellows. Sometimes the roots outgrow the pot. But life persists, stubbornly. Green shoots curl toward the light, no matter how long they’ve been buried in shadow.
Including living matter in my art reminds me—and those who engage with it—that healing isn’t a fixed state. It’s a living process.
24k Gold: The Art of Reverence
Gold is often seen as the pinnacle of value. It doesn’t tarnish. It resists time. But I don’t use gold just for its beauty—I use it for its metaphor.
In Japanese kintsugi, broken pottery is repaired with lacquer mixed with powdered gold. The cracks aren’t hidden; they’re highlighted, revered. That philosophy is foundational to my work. Gold is not for perfection. It’s for honoring the scar.
When I wrap something in gold—be it a crystal, a burr, or a botanical—I’m not glamorizing it. I’m saying: This is sacred. The broken is beautiful. The wounded is worthy.
Why These Materials? Why This Practice?
Because I believe art should breathe.
I don’t want my work to sit passively behind glass. I want it to pulse. To speak. To root and bloom and shed. These materials aren’t just decorative—they’re participatory. They crack open conversations around trauma, growth, and the messy in-betweens of becoming.
Art, like healing, isn’t always tidy. It takes grit to turn grief into beauty. It takes tenderness to sit with what’s broken and choose to gild it instead of hiding it. That’s why I work with what the earth offers: materials that already know what it means to break, adapt, and thrive.
Gold, Grit, and Growth
This triad is more than a title—it’s a mantra.
Gold for reverence.
Grit for the work.
Growth for the becoming.
Each piece I create is a love letter to the human capacity to transform. To root in dark places and still reach for the light. To crystalize under pressure. To bloom amidst decay. To wear our wounds like constellations, traced in gold.
So the next time you see a mushroom glinting with metal, or a crystal emerging from moss—know that it’s more than just sculpture. It’s a mirror. A meditation. A prayer. A promise.
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