The gold arrives at Selin Arkun's studio in envelopes, shoeboxes and, on one memorable occasion, a biscuit tin. Broken chains, single earrings, a signet ring from a grandfather nobody quite remembers, wedding bands from marriages that ended well and badly. Arkun, who has run her small jewellery studio in Hackney for eleven years, does not use newly mined metal at all. Every piece she makes is cast from gold that has already been worn, loved and set aside.
Arkun grew up in Istanbul, the daughter of a goldsmith with a stall in one of the old covered markets, and moved to London to study sculpture. She came back to jewellery almost by accident, after a friend asked her to remake a late mother's ring into something she could wear every day. Turning an object heavy with grief into something lighter and more personal convinced her that this was the work she wanted to do.
A second life for old metal
Her process begins with conversation. Clients who bring their own gold are asked about its history, and Arkun often carries small details from the original into the new design: a fragment of engraving, a stone reset at a different angle, the particular texture of a worn band. The metal is then refined, alloyed if necessary and cast by the lost-wax method, in which a hand-carved wax model is replaced by molten gold inside a plaster mould.
Gold does not forget. When you melt it down you are not erasing anything, you are giving it somewhere new to live. — Selin Arkun
For clients without heirlooms, Arkun offers a collection made from recycled gold bought from certified refiners and from people selling unwanted jewellery. Her signature pieces are chunky, sculptural rings, slightly irregular in form, that look as though they have been shaped by water. They sit somewhere between fine jewellery and small sculpture, and have won a loyal following among architects, artists and collectors.
The environmental argument is significant. Mining the gold for a single ring produces a large quantity of waste rock and often involves toxic chemicals and hazardous working conditions. There is already enough gold above ground, in jewellery, electronics and vaults, to meet demand for decades. Arkun believes that for independent jewellers, working only in recycled metal is both an ethical choice and a creative constraint worth embracing.
She is realistic about the limits of her influence. The global jewellery trade is enormous, and many large companies still rely heavily on newly mined metal. But she has noticed a shift among younger customers, who increasingly ask where their gold came from and what it was before. Several London jewellery schools have invited her to speak on responsible sourcing, and two of her former apprentices now run recycled-gold studios of their own.
On the day I visit, Arkun is finishing a ring made from a mother's wedding band and a father's cufflinks, commissioned by their daughter after both parents died within a year. It is simple, broad and softly polished, with a faint seam where the two golds meet. She turns it in her fingers, checks it once more under the lamp, and places it in a small box lined with linen.
