At Dedstok, I’m not just collecting things—I’m keeping stories alive. Everything I find, everything I fix, everything I frame or repot or tag with a little folded label—it all comes from this deep-rooted need to rescue meaning from the landfill of time.

This isn’t about flipping antiques or slapping a price on nostalgia. It’s about preservation with purpose. A propaganda poster from a forgotten war, a travel patch from someone’s only trip out west, a tool handled by calloused hands three generations ago—these objects carry weight. They hold fingerprints. They echo voices. I clean them up, write down their stories, and pass them on not because they’re valuable, but because they matter.

I grew up around workshops and bookshelves, around people who kept things not out of hoarding instinct, but out of reverence. Now, I'm building a place where that instinct can thrive—a weird little crossroads of design, decay, memory, and meaning. Sometimes it's a framed print that would’ve hung above your grandfather’s bench while he welded something that outlasted him. Other times, it’s a plant that’s been split and shared for decades, quietly living in windowsills across time.

My goal is to make history feel touchable. Whether that’s a restored relic you hang on your wall or a little zine that tells you where it came from, Dedstok is about bringing people closer to the living past. It’s not a museum. It’s not a shop. It’s more like a time capsule that’s been cracked open—one piece at a time—and you get to carry a piece of it forward.

Because this stuff? It doesn’t belong in the trash. It belongs with people who give a damn.