What’s the most unusual craft sculpture you’ve ever sold, and why did people love it?

You know, people often ask me what’s the oddest piece I’ve ever sold—and I always smile, because it’s not a twisted metal bird or a surreal humanoid figure. It was a sculpture called “The Launcher.” A whimsical, fully functional, steam-powered mechanical arm that gently picked up a single folded paper airplane, aimed it by rotating on a bronze base, and then—with a soft hiss of steam—flicked the plane across the room.

It stood about two feet tall, built from salvaged brass gears, copper tubing, and a tiny hand-blown glass boiler. The “brain” was a set of cam-driven timers that would cycle every few minutes. And yes, it worked. You could load a paper airplane into its tiny claw, and watch the whole performance: a slow pivot, a tilt, a burst of steam, and the plane would sail into the air, often landing in someone’s coffee cup.

People loved it because it combined two things we rarely see together: meticulous craftsmanship and pure, childlike joy. The grown-ups admired the engineering—the precision of the cams, the leather seals, the tiny gauge showing steam pressure. But the moment the paper airplane launched, everyone became a kid. It was unpredictable in a wholesome way: sometimes the plane would spiral, sometimes it would make a perfect arc. The sculpture wasn’t just something to look at—it participated in the moment, creating a small shared memory between the viewer and the artist.

I sold it to a retired engineer who said it reminded him of building model planes with his father. He placed it in his living room window, and every time the laundry went off, he’d fold a new plane and let The Launcher fly it. For me, that’s the real measure of a successful artwork—not how strange it looks, but how much life it brings into a room.