From seaside beginnings in East Sussex to London’s creative underground, Karthur has forged his own path. Rejecting formal education, he apprenticed with radical artist Noki before establishing his practice in jewellery. His work fuses history, rebellion and craft, where the broken becomes precious again.

When asked who he is, Karthur answers without hesitation: “I make jewellery and other bits and bobs from recycled metals that I find out and about.” His practice is grounded in salvage, a fascination with what has been discarded and how it might be transformed.

Karthur grew up in Seaford, a small seaside town in East Sussex, before moving to London two years ago. His route was far from conventional. “I dropped out of college when I was 18,” he recalls. It was the middle of COVID, and promises made by institutions felt empty. The traditional education system had never suited him. 

Instead, he chose to move to Brighton and throw himself into work experience. A chance encounter with the textile artist Noki, known for his radical work with recycled clothing, became pivotal. Karthur describes his two-and-a-half years apprenticing with him as a “little weird DIY one-on-one version of university.” It was there that he discovered the creative possibilities of re-use, and it opened him to “the world of fashion, the London scene, and working with recycled materials.” Eventually, London itself became his base, and jewellery his full-time pursuit.

He describes his work in a single line: “It is a fusion of modern and ancient with a kind of dystopian vibe.” This aesthetic grew out of his time with Noki, where ideas of rebellion and dadaist play mixed with rave culture. Karthur explains, “It basically just sort of sums up our current times… everything feels kind of crazy right now, so it just seems to be where aesthetically my brain wants to go.”

What drives him is less abstract than it might seem: “I just have this weird thing where I want to keep on making stuff… It’s been my solution to things since I was a kid.” His sources of inspiration are scattered across antique markets, architecture, and overlooked objects. He often asks antique sellers for their broken or unsellable scraps. “I find beauty in the broken,” he says, “and find some new places for that to go. It’s a lost-and-found kind of ideology.”

The rhythm of his making is deeply personal. “I don’t think much inspires me to get up every morning,” he admits. “But I know I don’t want to be stuck in an office. At the deepest level, it’s a mental health thing. I’ve found a thing that fulfils me in more ways than one.” His process is intuitive, often self-described as inefficient, and sometimes meandering. Ideas can sit on his desk for over a year before resurfacing. He takes pieces on holiday or places them in different environments to see where they belong.

In terms of craft, he began simply: hammer, mandrel, anvil. Over time, he added sand casting, an ancient method thousands of years old, and more recently, a laser engraver. He delights in the contrast: “Sand casting is probably a thousand-plus years old… so I like the idea of being able to use that with the future of laser technology.” For him, this marriage of tradition and modernity defines his practice.

The tools he relies on are eclectic: “files, saws, bolt cutters, sheet metal pliers, clippers, hammers, callipers, and a blow torch. I wouldn’t be here without a blow torch.” Asked about what he is most proud of, Karthur speaks of a particular ring. He took a vintage sterling silver cufflink with a tiny clock face and combined it with a bent Victorian baby’s fork. The result is a hybrid of timepiece and adornment: a watch-ring that is both familiar and strange. “I’ve never seen it before,” he says, “and I think that’s kind of great. Hopefully one day I figure out how to make it into something for everyone.”

The piece exemplifies his approach, finding new life in objects long overlooked, fusing histories and materials into forms that feel both ancient and futuristic. In his hands, the discarded becomes precious again. As our session closes, he reflects on his tendency to ramble, apologising with a smile. But in truth, his voice is anything but wasted; it carries the ethos of a maker who sees value where others see waste and who insists that broken things can always be reshaped.