Urban’s Story

I used to think I had to shrink to survive.

Shrink my voice.
Shrink my style.
Shrink my truth.

Growing up queer in a small town meant becoming a master of camouflage.
I learned how to blend in — to soften my edges, lower my colors, and stay quiet when the world told me I was “too much.”
Too loud. Too soft. Too different. Too me.

But clay doesn't forget the shape of the hands that formed it.
And neither did I.

Art was the only place I could be loud without speaking.
As a teen, I started stitching patches onto jackets, customizing everything I wore — making ordinary things into tiny rebellions.
At first, it was just survival.
Then, it became style.
Then, it became me.

When I left home, I made a promise: I wouldn’t build a life where I had to hide anymore.
So I didn’t.

Leatherwork came later — almost by accident.
I fell in love with the contradiction of it: the rawness of the material, the gentleness it demands.
It’s a medium that doesn’t lie.
It shows every cut, every burnish, every choice.
That honesty felt right.

Now, I design pieces that hold a little bit of armor and a little bit of softness.
That’s who I am, too — someone who’s had to be tough, but still believes in tenderness.
My work is my identity, stitched in layers: queer, loud, precise, defiant, sometimes even glittery.

If you’ve ever been told you’re “too much” — I made this for you.
If you’ve ever quieted yourself to stay safe — I see you.
And if you’re just here for something beautiful and well-made, that’s okay too.
I’ll still be in every corner of it.

— Urban