There is a beautiful forest near my home. I walk through it every day with my dog, whatever the weather. It is filled with tall trees standing in a clearing, and many thickets that guard its entrance. It is an inspiring place, almost magical. In summer, the sunlight filters through the foliage, tracing wide, shifting arabesques in the branches and on the mossy ground. It’s not unusual to come across a deer, as startled as I am, but always quicker to react.
Here, the light of the wood takes on its full meaning. Even a humble pile of deadwood turns festive when touched by the sun. The small leaves of the ash trees shimmer, tinting the path with a warm, clear green, while the denser canopies of the oaks and chestnuts offer coolness and dappled light.
This forest always inspires me.
And when the grain of the wood then slides beneath my palm, in the quiet of my workshop, I always try to find the best way to bring back that changing, rich light I love so much.
The wood I use is not just a material. It is already full—of years, of tension, of patience. I love to read in it the invisible traces: a slightly rebellious grain, a hesitant vein, a discreet knot, like a half-closed eye. It speaks to me—not always clearly, not always in agreement—but it speaks. And I listen.
When I create a lamp, I listen to what the shapes, the wood, the light whisper in my ear, what they place in the palm of my hand. The form I design, the light I choose, are never entirely mine. They are the outcome of a dialogue. And I believe that dialogue can be felt. Not always seen, but sensed—like a living trace within the finished piece.
I know that those who live with their Uphile lamps feel this too. They sense that, behind the warmth of the wood, there is a tree—a standing memory. And that the light, in brushing against it, reveals something of that lovely forest that welcomes us each day.