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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