This piece began with a broken gatepost and a question: What can this become?
For five years, I drove past a shattered concrete gatepost near my house in Sheffield, knowing I’d use it someday. I just didn’t know how—until I discovered a derelict brewery down the road from my workshop. Before it was demolished, I slipped in—first under cover of night, then more boldly by day—gathering salvaged materials: timber joists, metal frames, doors, even a door signed by a well-known local street artist.

Among them, a large sheet of perforated galvanized steel caught my eye, revealed beneath mud by a curious dotted pattern. As I cleaned the steel, sunlight filtered through its holes, scattering light across the ground—and I instantly thought of that old gatepost. The combination of concrete and steel felt right. The next morning, I finally retrieved the post, marvelled at its intact top and chaotic rebar base, and began planning.

Polishing the gatepost revealed a hidden terrazzo-like beauty beneath its rough surface. I attempted to remove the gate hook embedded in lead, as though removing an arrow from a fallen comrade, eventually letting the molten metal flow out from the wound—an imperfect but compelling feature.

I had the sheet steel folded into a square shade and welded it to the protruding rebar. Lit up, the piece was stunning—raw, industrial, but alive, a machine with a soul. This lamp is the product of instinct, salvage, patience—and a deep belief that beauty hides in the forgotten and broken.