Sometimes the simplest stories are the ones we recognize first.

Unlike many of my other prints, Record Player doesn't ask us to search for hidden landscapes or unexpected forms. At first glance, it simply looks like what it is: the end of a tree, quietly revealing a lifetime of growth ring by ring. Perhaps that's exactly why I love it.

There is something deeply satisfying about seeing a tree exactly as we expect to see it. Every ring marks another growing season. Every subtle change in width reflects a different year in the tree's life. Without trying to become anything else, this slab reminds us that nature's own design has always been extraordinary. Then one detail changes everything.

A sweeping pale inclusion arcs across the rings like the tonearm of a record player, giving the print the image that inspired its name. The feature was likely formed where a branch once emerged from the trunk, permanently redirecting the surrounding grain. Long after the branch disappeared, the tree continued growing around that memory, quietly preserving it within its wood.

It feels fitting. Just as a vinyl record preserves music long after it was first performed, a tree quietly preserves the story of every season it has lived. The years remain etched into the timber, waiting for someone to stop and listen.

Sometimes the most remarkable trees aren't the ones that surprise us.

Sometimes they're the ones that quietly remind us why we fell in love with trees in the first place.