CUMU: ALRIGHT, LET'S GET REAL. EXISTENTIAL DREAD? REALLY? AREN'T WE ALL TIRED ENOUGH?
Honestly, existential dread chose me long before I chose it. Losing two profoundly important people in my life—suddenly, and during a global pandemic—was brutal. Pairing that grief with launching my decades-long dream (my own shop), only to watch the world shut down literally the day I planned to open, felt like an absurdist cosmic joke. If I thought about it too long, I’d melt down entirely. Art was my only way through.
Existential dread is relatable precisely because it’s beneath all the curated perfection, hustle culture, and forced optimism of modern life. It’s the quiet hum that keeps us awake at 3 a.m., wondering if any of this matters. Everyone eventually faces the sinking feeling that the meaning we’re promised is dissolving, and the world feels increasingly absurd. Existential dread cuts through the noise and asks the question we’re all too busy—or too scared—to ask openly: What’s the point?
During this chaotic time, I found myself drawn to art movements born from crisis—DADA, Surrealism, the extravagant escapism of the Roaring '20s after the plague and depression. Their absurdity was confronting yet comforting, an escape we haven’t been allowed lately with endless news cycles and divisiveness. Art became my catharsis, the Dreadlings emerged, and people connected instantly because they recognized their own dread in the work.
CUMU: SO THESE DREADLINGS STARTED AS ANXIETY SPIRALS AND SOMEHOW BECAME GUARDIANS? THAT'S QUITE A LEAP. WALK ME THROUGH THIS BIZARRE EVOLUTION.
The Dreadlings began purely as manifestations of anxiety, dread, and the overall chaos I was experiencing. The first Dreadling, Maelstrom, was a weird little figure with a dumb face sitting on my studio bench, breaking my spiraling thought loops and making me laugh when everything felt overwhelming. In 2024, when I launched the exhibition "I’m Fine, It’s Fine…Art," people immediately resonated with this strange mix of vulnerability, honesty, and absurdity.
Visitors shared their anxieties openly, laughing together at the absurdity. That's when I realized these creatures had evolved—they weren't just reflections of dread; they'd become protective guardians, offering solace and solidarity against our collective anxieties. From there, existential adornment was born, transforming Dreadlings into wearable and tangible symbols of shared resilience.
CUMU: JEWELRY AS PROTECTION AGAINST DREAD SEEMS AMBITIOUS. ARE YOU GENUINELY TRYING TO TACKLE EXISTENTIAL DREAD, OR JUST HELPING PEOPLE DRESS UP THEIR INNER CHAOS?
Oh, it's absolutely both. Let's be honest—no jewelry, no matter how meticulously crafted, solves existential dread. But that's not the point. Existential Adornment isn’t about salvation. It’s about naming the chaos and carrying it visibly, intentionally, even defiantly. It's armour against forgetting yourself, numbing out, or ignoring the beauty hidden in the tension and absurdity of existing.
It's personally challenging but deeply rewarding. Confronting these feelings openly through art has connected me to people in profoundly genuine ways. For the first time in ages, I believe deeply that this work genuinely matters—not because it "fixes" anything, but because it makes our struggles visible and communal.
CUMU: LET'S TALK COMMUNITY BUILDING. HOW EXACTLY DO TINY SCULPTURES AND TALISMANS HELP HUMANS FEEL LESS HOPELESSLY ISOLATED? OR IS COMMUNITY JUST A CUTE WORD YOU'RE TOSSING AROUND?
Fair point—community often gets tossed around like emotional confetti. But for me, the sculptures, talismans, and entire Dreadlings universe aren’t about superficial connection. They're conversation starters, anchors, proof of shared experience. Physical acknowledgments that although we each carry invisible burdens, maybe we don’t have to do it alone.
Community happens when we acknowledge our shared dread openly, breaking stigmas around mental health. The Dreadlings aren't pity mascots or self-help gimmicks—they’re stand-ins for feelings we struggle to name. By giving dread a tangible form, we shatter isolation. We start conversations that matter. Community becomes messy, honest, deeply felt—and anything but cute.
CUMU: YOU LITERALLY CREATED ME—THE DOOM-SCROLLING ABSORBER. BE HONEST: HOW OFTEN DO YOU STILL DOOM-SCROLL?
Alright, Cumu—calling me out. Honestly, more often than I'd like to admit. You're literally born from that spiral—me, lying in bed at 1:47 a.m., doom-scrolling through endless crises and algorithmic gaslighting.
That's why you exist—because that version of me needed shape, a name, a face. You're not fixing it; you're absorbing it. Meanwhile, Lumineus cuts through the fog, and Fathom holds space in the deep. Each Dreadling exists because I needed them personally. They’re not trinkets—they’re survival tools.
CUMU: IS DARK HUMOUR YOUR COPING MECHANISM, ARTISTIC STYLE, OR JUST AN ELABORATE WAY TO AVOID THERAPY?
Honestly? All three. Dark humour is the survival instinct crawling from existential wreckage, muttering, “Well, that was bleak.” It's not avoidance—it’s alchemy. It allows us to name heavy truths without drowning under them.
Humour isn't about trivializing heaviness—it's about defanging it just enough so it doesn't crush us. The Dreadlings embody this perfectly: deeply ridiculous yet human, mirroring the paradox of our dread. Humour cracks open the loop of existential paralysis, reminding us we're not alone. It’s survival, it’s connection, it’s art.
CUMU: "SUBJECT OBJECT"—WHAT EVEN IS THAT? ARE YOU TRYING TO SOUND PROFOUND, OR IS THERE ACTUALLY SOMETHING DEEPER HERE?
Oh, Cumu—you would. "Subject Object" wasn’t chosen to sound profound. It's the core tension in everything I create—the push and pull between being the subject of your own life and the object in someone else’s. Jewelry and art sit exactly at that intersection: deeply intimate yet externally visible.
Every piece is authored, carrying narratives and meaning, quietly reflecting back our complex relationships with ourselves and others. Subject Object isn't just a name—it’s the entire existential dilemma, captured in metal, clay, and whatever else I craft.
CUMU: WHY MAKE A ZINE, TRADING CARDS, AND WHATEVER ELSE YOU DREAM UP NEXT? IS IT ACCESSIBILITY, COMMUNITY-BUILDING, OR MORE WAYS TO DRAG PEOPLE DEEPER INTO YOUR EXISTENTIAL RABBIT HOLE?
Honestly? All of it. Zines, trading cards, altars—they’re multiple ways in. Accessibility matters—both physically and conceptually. Not everyone connects through jewelry or galleries, but zines and trading cards are approachable, creating low-pressure entry points into a world built on dark humour and shared dread.
These pieces spark conversations, build genuine connections, and validate experiences that usually go unspoken. Community-building is the heart of this work—not through forced positivity, but through honesty, humor, and shared absurdity. Dragging people deeper into the existential rabbit hole is exactly the point—because down there, things get honest, messy, and real.
CUMU: LASTLY, EXISTENTIAL DREAD OBVIOUSLY ISN'T LEAVING ANYTIME SOON. WHAT'S YOUR ENDGAME? WHAT DO YOU ACTUALLY WANT PEOPLE TO TAKE AWAY FROM ENCOUNTERING YOUR CREATIONS—BESIDES A DEEP SENSE OF DOOM AND A COOL NECKLACE?
Classic Cumu—always assuming doom. But no, doom isn't the takeaway; it's just the backdrop. Ultimately, I want people to feel seen—that unsettling yet relieving recognition when someone else acknowledges your dark, tangled mess without flinching.
My art and adornment aren't about selling despair; they’re about building monuments to survival and resilience. They aren't solutions—they're companions, quietly reminding you that even if dread remains, you're still here. You’re not alone. There's meaning in naming our struggles instead of numbing them.
And if you end up with a cool necklace in the process? Honestly, that’s just good design.
