Meet Your Maker

Hi. I’m Char.

Charlotte, technically. But if you’re calling me Charlotte, I’m probably in trouble.

I’m the person behind LaRue & Co., which means I spend a slightly unreasonable amount of my life surrounded by gold, gemstones, tools, photographs, plants, paper, coffee cups, and approximately seventeen things I’m working on at any given moment.

I make jewelry. I take the photographs. I design the things. I write a lot of the words. I obsess over the details. And yes, I probably have three completely unrelated projects going at the same time.

I’ve always been like this. It’s a disease lol.

I’ve Always Been a Maker

Photography actually came first.

I started shooting and working in a darkroom when I was fifteen, which feels slightly insane now that I think about it. I dabbled in digital photography too, but there was something about film and the darkroom that completely hooked me. The process, the waiting, watching an image appear. There was something almost magical about it.

Eventually I went to college in San Francisco to study graphic design and photography, and from there my creative life sort of exploded in every possible direction.

Graphic design became part of my career. Then came interior design and image consulting. There were fashion shows and casting calls and shoots and campaigns and a whole lot of figuring things out as I went.

And then there was jewelry.

Looking back, it actually makes perfect sense.

Because jewelry is design, but it’s also sculpture. It’s photography and styling and storytelling. It’s tiny engineering, history, material science, fashion, art, and a little bit of magic. It’s all the things I already loved, just really, really small.

I love that.

The Jewelry Thing

I’ve been obsessed with jewelry for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I was a sterling silver girl. I was convinced I was allergic to yellow gold. I was not allergic to yellow gold.

At eighteen, something shifted. I realized I could actually decide who I wanted to be, and apparently that version of me wore gold. Around the same time, I moved to San Francisco in 2010, and there was a very specific problem.

Everyone had their nose pierced.

Everyone had a silver hoop.

I had gotten my nose pierced at twelve as a way to honor my aunt who had passed away. I wore a tiny diamond stud for years, but when I got to San Francisco, I wanted a hoop.

A gold hoop.

Solid gold.

This turned out to be considerably harder to find than I thought it should be.

Everything was plated. Everything was mystery metal. Everything was pretending to be something it wasn't.

And I’m actually allergic to brass, so this wasn't just an aesthetic problem. My skin would turn green, the plating would disappear, and I would be left wondering what exactly I had just paid for.

Eventually I got sick of looking.

So I thought, Fine. How hard could it possibly be?

Famous last words.

The First Three Days

I found the Revere Academy of Jewelry Arts in San Francisco and signed up for a three-day fabrication class. And during those first three days, I fell completely, hopelessly in love with making jewelry. I remember looking at the reflection of molten metal for the first time and thinking it was deliciously gorgeous. There really isn't another word for it. Something about watching the metal glow and move in the light just got me.

I was done for.

And apparently the people at Revere noticed, because one of the professors pulled me aside and told me their jeweler’s intensive program was starting in two weeks. They thought I would be a good fit.

So I applied.

And then I spent the next year and a half basically living at the jewelers bench.

The intensive took what would normally be a four-year apprentice-style program and compressed it into a year and a half. Which is insane. Six in the morning until six at night, followed by open studio until eleven or midnight.

Every day. It was exhausting. It was challenging. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

And I loved every minute of it.

And yes, during those first three days, I made the thing that started all of this in the first place. My solid gold nose ring. I made it myself. She has been in my nose ever since.

That was twelve years ago.

Apparently I Was Supposed to Pick One Thing

Here’s something else you should probably know about me. I have ADHD, and I’m also on the autism spectrum. I have learning disabilities. My brain has never been particularly interested in doing things in the conventional order.

For most of my life, people told me I needed to pick one thing. Pick a lane. Focus on one thing and get really good at it. You can’t do everything.

And honestly?

I didn't listen.

Thank god.

Because the older I get, the more I realize that all those things I was told were unrelated were never actually unrelated at all.

Photography taught me how to see.

Graphic design taught me how to communicate visually.

Image consulting taught me how people use clothes and objects to tell the world who they are.

Interior design taught me how people experience a space.

Jewelry taught me how to work with my hands, understand materials, and turn an idea into something physical.

They all feed each other.

Every single one.

So yes, my brain jumps around. It gets obsessed. It follows weird little threads. It sees connections between things that don't always look connected to everyone else. And sometimes that makes life a little chaotic.

But it also means I get to walk into my studio and use all of it.

I think there are a lot of people — especially creative people — who have been made to feel like the way their brain works is a problem they need to overcome. If that’s you, I want you to know something:

You don't necessarily need to become less of yourself to do something remarkable.

Maybe you need to figure out how all your pieces fit together and work together.

That’s what I did.

So, Somehow, This Became a Jewelry Company

I never really sat down one day and decided, I’m going to start a jewelry company. It was much less organized than that. I wanted a gold nose ring. I couldn't find one.

So I learned how to make it.

Then I kept making things.

Then other people wanted the things I was making.

And, well…

Here we are.

There were Etsy shops and website changes and rebrands and boxes of jewelry everywhere and a lot of figuring things out as I went.

Eventually I made my way back to the East Coast.

I’m originally a NYC girl — the Village, specifically — then I lived in Tucson through high school, went to San Francisco, eventually found my way back to Tucson for a bit, and then finally came back East again.

I knew I wanted to be on the East Coast. I just couldn't quite hang with living in the City full-time anymore. So I found Kingston. And honestly, it makes a weird amount of sense.

Kingston has the history and grit I love about New York, but it also has space. Trees. Water. Farms. Artists. Old buildings. A little weirdness. A little money. A lot of personality.

It felt like somewhere I could actually build something.

So I did.

Our Kingston shop opened on November 16, 2024.

And now I get to walk into work every day and make jewelry.

Which still feels a little ridiculous.

In the best possible way.

Why I Still Make Every Piece by Hand

I still make every piece myself.

Partly because I genuinely love the craft. I love the bench. I love the tools. I love solving tiny problems that nobody else will ever know existed.

But there’s another reason too.

I think it’s important to keep the craft alive.

Jewelry fabrication is still very much a boys’ club. And while I have absolutely met some wonderful men in this industry, I also think lady jewelers need to stick together.

So, ladies: keep making shit.

Learn the torch.

Take up space at the bench.

Ask questions.

Make the weird thing.

Make the thing nobody thinks will work.

And if somebody tells you something can't be done, well…

Try it anyway.

Jewelry Should Fit People. Not the Other Way Around.

The more I worked in jewelry, the more obvious it became to me that the industry has a lot of assumptions baked into it.

Especially around who jewelry is for.

People have different bodies, fingers, wrists, necks, budgets, styles and lives.

Duh.

So why are we still acting like there is one “standard” size, one “right” way to wear something, or one type of person who gets to participate in fine jewelry?

I wanted LaRue & Co. to feel different.

That means gender inclusion.

It means size inclusion.

It means making adjustments when something needs to be made differently.

It means not looking at someone and deciding what they should wear before they've even had a chance to tell us what they like.

And it means remembering that jewelry is supposed to be worn by actual human beings.

Imagine that.

Sustainability Matters Too

The same goes for how things are made.

I care about materials. I care about where things come from. I care about what happens to them after we're done with them.

I use recycled metals throughout the collection and source stones as directly from their origins as I can. Our packaging is recyclable or compostable, too.

None of that means I think I’m going to single-handedly save the planet with a jewelry box. But I do believe that if you're going to make something, you should care about how you make it. Especially when the whole point of jewelry is that someone might keep it for decades.

Maybe longer.

That matters to me.

And Then There’s Joanie

My grandmother was a big part of my relationship with jewelry.

She died eight years ago, but she was very much here when I was learning to make jewelry and for many years after. She left me a pair of pearl studs that I still wear almost every day.

There are certain people whose influence doesn't really go away when they do. You hear them in your head. You remember the things they taught you. You wear the earrings they left you. You find yourself doing something and think, Oh, she would have loved this.

Jewelry is good at holding onto people. I think that's one of the reasons I love it so much.

I Never Really Left the Other Parts of Me Behind

One of the best things about LaRue & Co. is that I didn't have to become a completely different person to build it.

I’m still a photographer.

I’m still a graphic designer.

I’m still obsessed with interiors.

I still care way too much about typography.

I still style shoots.

I still take our photographs.

I still design our marketing.

I still have a million ideas that have absolutely nothing to do with jewelry until, somehow, they do.

The magazine, the shop, the photography, the branding, the jewelry — it’s all connected in my head.

I think that’s why this feels so much like me.

I didn't have to leave all the other versions of myself behind.

I just gave them somewhere to live.

So, Who Am I Making For?

You.

But not some imaginary version of you that a jewelry industry marketing department has decided exists. The actual you.

The person who wants to wear gold because it makes them feel like themselves.

The person who wants a pearl because they love pearls.

The person who has never owned “fine jewelry” before and has no idea what they're supposed to ask.

The person who wants something sentimental.

The person who wants something completely ridiculous.

The person who buys herself flowers and jewelry just because Tuesday felt like a good day for it.

I don't think jewelry needs to be saved for a special occasion.

You are the special occasion.

 

Anyway,

So that's me.

I'm a jeweler, photographer, designer, chronic maker, gemstone nerd, pearl enthusiast, typography obsessive, and professional collector of too many ideas.

I started making jewelry because I wanted a gold nose ring.

I stayed because I fell in love with the craft.

And I'm still here because I love what happens when something I make becomes part of someone else's story. That's the really cool part. I make the jewelry. You make it yours.

So if you're in Kingston, come say hi. Come look around.

Ask me about a weird gemstone.

Try something on.

Tell me what you like.

Tell me what you absolutely hate.

And if you've been thinking about learning how to make jewelry yourself, come sit at my bench.

There’s room for you.

— Char