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The Playing Card Case can’t make you a better player, but it can certainly make you a better-looking one. There is a specific kind of satisfaction in creating an object that serves a single, classic purpose. A deck of cards is a universal tool for connection, yet it is almost always housed in a flimsy paper box that begins to disintegrate after the first few shuffles. New for 2026, the Playing Card Case, was designed to replace that temporary packaging with something permanen

Small batch isn’t a marketing term. It is a core value. The workshop has a specific language this week. It’s the sound of the blade on the cutting mat and the rhythmic pull of thread through a signature label. Looking at these pebbled leather panels and nickel zippers, I’m reminded that every piece I bring to the Glen Ridge Arts & Eco Fair starts exactly like this. They are just high-quality components waiting for a purpose. At Twenty-One Astor, making things one at a time al

There are about 60 days until the Glen Ridge Arts & Eco Fair, which means it’s time to start figuring out what will go on the table this year. Preparation usually starts the same way. Not with leather, tools, or hardware, but with a simple list in a notebook. What seemed to resonate last year, what people asked about, and what feels worth bringing back again. Some things tend to make the list every year. Card sleeves are usually one of them. Utility pouches too. They’re pract

Travel has a way of revealing the small things we rely on. Not the obvious things like luggage or a passport. Those are easy to remember. It is the smaller items that tend to scatter themselves throughout a bag. A charging cable. A few band aids. Collar stays. Maybe a couple of Tylenol tucked away just in case. Individually, they are insignificant. Together, they are the things you find yourself searching for when you need them most. Anyone who travels regularly knows the mom

I made a series of card holders with no stitching at all. There’s a comfort in repetition. For me, that comfort usually shows up in stitching. The rhythm of punching holes. The pull of the thread. The symmetry that slowly forms as two separate pieces become one. Stitching has always felt like structure — like proof that something is secure. This week, I set that aside. No thread. No saddle stitch. No reinforcement beyond the way the leather itself folds, tensions, and holds i

A key chain is not complicated. It does one job. But the experience of using it can be different. Vegetable tanned leather that warms in your hand.Edges that are burnished smooth.Stitching that is deliberate and visible.Hardware that feels solid, not flimsy. Over time, the leather softens. It darkens. It records use. What begins as a clean, structured piece slowly becomes personal. That evolution is part of the design.

The pieces you reach for when you are on the move. I have a few spring trips on the calendar. Some by road. Some by air. Packing used to mean options. Extras. Just in case. Now it means clarity. Travel has a way of exposing what works and what does not. Airports are not gentle. Car seats are not organized. Movement tests everything you bring with you. A passport wallet should keep documents together without thinking about it. A cover should protect without adding bulk. What y

There’s a particular calm that shows up when I make more than one of the same thing. Most of the time, I’ll make two or three pieces of a single design in one sitting. Not enough to feel like production. Just enough to fall into a rhythm. The pattern stays the same. The tools stay in reach. The steps are familiar. Cut. Stitch. Finish. Repeat. What changes are the small things. A stitch pulls a little tighter. An edge burnishes a little darker. A piece of leather responds slig

Most of what I make doesn’t begin as a product. It begins with a person. Over time, I’ve made small leather pieces for my wife, Meg. Things for her desk, her bag, and her everyday routines. Not as a set or a collection, but one piece at a time, shaped by how she works and what she actually uses. That approach has quietly informed everything behind Twenty one Astor. At the bench, I’m usually focused on a single item. One object, one purpose, one person. Working this way keeps

Valentine’s Day has a way of narrowing our idea of what a “good” gift looks like. Flowers. Chocolate. Something romantic, maybe fleeting. There’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s never been what interests me most. I’ve always been drawn to gifts that quietly become part of someone’s everyday life. The wallet that gets pulled out ten times a day. The key strap that keeps things from disappearing into the bottom of a bag. The small piece that doesn’t announce itself, but earns

This project started with a practical problem. A photographer needed a better way to carry and organize SD cards—something compact, protective, and easy to reach while working. The goal wasn’t to reinvent how cards are stored, but to improve a small part of an existing workflow. That framing shaped every design decision. The size needed to be minimal, with just enough structure to protect the cards without adding bulk. The opening had to allow quick access, but still feel sec

There’s something grounding about cutting leather by hand. It’s repetitive and quiet. You trace the pattern, check your lines, commit to the cut. There’s no undo button, no shortcut. Each piece asks for attention, and it gives you immediate feedback if you rush. I’ve thought a lot about that rhythm over time. The parts of the work that aren’t seen — the early steps, the careful preparation — are what determine how everything else turns out. If the foundation is off, it shows

A piece that started as a gift — and turned into something much more. The Desk Pad started as a one-off project — a gift for my wife’s home office. She had been putting together a workspace that felt calm and pulled-together, and without either of us planning it, a few of the things on her desk shared the same soft light blue tone. A notebook. A ceramic cup. The edge of a picture frame. Small details, but they made the space feel intentional. Around the same time, I had a hid

When I started Twenty-one Astor, I made a quiet promise to myself: I would always lean toward minimalist everyday carry. Fewer pockets. Less bulk. Only what’s needed. For a long time, that meant staying away from the traditional bifold altogether. But over the years, people kept coming back to it. Not out of habit, but out of preference. They liked the familiarity. The way it opens. The way it carries cash and cards without explanation. And eventually, that persistence made m

Giving isn’t always about the object itself. More often, it’s about the attention behind it. Making asks for that attention. It slows you down. It forces choices — about materials, proportions, how something should feel in the hand, and how it should hold up over time. There’s no shortcut for care. The work reflects it whether you intend it to or not. These pieces were made with that in mind. Not as statements, but as useful objects meant to be handled, carried, and lived wit

Leveling Up on Gifting Some of the most meaningful projects at Twenty-one Astor didn’t begin with a product idea — they began with conversations. People told me they often give gift cards, checks, or cash because it’s simple and flexible. But almost everyone said the same thing afterward: it never quite feels special . The envelope is disposable. The gesture fades quickly. So instead of rethinking the gift itself, I focused on the part that’s usually overlooked. This leather

A place for craft, process, and the stories behind the pieces. When I started Twenty-one Astor, it wasn’t with the intention of creating a brand. It started as a curiosity — a way to work with my hands, learn a new craft, and make things that felt honest and useful. Over time, that curiosity grew into something more meaningful. I found myself drawn to the details: the feel of good leather, the rhythm of hand-stitching, the satisfaction of finishing an edge until it’s glass-sm