Made in Southwest Florida: The New Artisan Movement

In Southwest Florida, a quiet creative revival is taking root. Once known for retirement dreams and imported goods, the region is now home to a growing community of local makers—many young, often self-taught—who are shaping clay, weaving metal and reimagining tradition from garages and sunlit studios. Their handcrafted work reflects a shift toward slower, more intentional living, where value lies in what’s made by hand, with care, right here on the Gulf.

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Cheri Dunnigan, The Metalsmith

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Cheri Dunnigan was 15 when she first picked up a coil of wire in a high school art class. As she twisted it into a simple brooch, she felt she was discovering a secret language, understood through repetition, rhythm and structure. “The minute I picked up the metal, I just fell in love with it,” she says. 

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She spent her summers immersed in metalsmithing and bobbin lace classes, then enrolled in the Cleveland Institute of Art’s five-year metals program, where she began developing the looped motifs that now define her work. “At this point, I think in [the language of] metal,” she says. “I built this beautiful vocabulary with a very simple structure.” 

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In her Naples studio, Cheri methodically weaves fine wire—primarily sterling silver, sometimes 18-karat gold—into tight curlicue coils that mimic lacework. She blends textile sensibility with Old World metalsmithing, forming each loop by hand, then shaping the intricate webs with heat and hammer and soldering them into airy, architectural sculptures and jewelry. 

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Her pieces—shown at Naples gallery Method & Concept, which Cheri credits as a force championing fine craftsmanship in the region—echo the geometry of nature and traditions like Armenian needle lace. She sees her work not just as adornment, but as a form of fluency, a dialogue between maker and medium made manifest.  “Craft is becoming more visible,” she says. And with visibility comes more artisans choosing patience over speed, creating heirlooms that honor something lasting. —Annamarie Simoldoni

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Claire Rohweder, The Printmaker 

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Minnesota-born Claire Rohweder spent childhood summers camping in the forests of her home state, quietly trailing deer with her gaze and listening for the flick of a bird’s wing. “I loved just being quiet and observing and feeling everything,” she says. “I still do.”

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Now based in Naples, she explores a different kind of wilderness—one where roseate spoonbills wade through shallows and turtles haul themselves onto sunbaked logs. Claire channels those serene encounters into her work at Lady Printmaker, where she crafts hand-carved woodblock prints that capture the hush and wonder of the natural world. Most pieces begin as a drawing, which she translates into a woodblock by carving away the negative space until the image appears in shallow relief.

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She then rolls ink onto the carved surface with a brayer, presses the block into paper, and adds watercolor washes to lend warmth and life. “It’s like a meditative process,” she says, drawn to the solitude of her craft.

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After a decade of visiting the area, she moved to Naples last year—and has been struck by the strength of the local arts scene. “I have never been anywhere else where it is so easy to meet artists and people who are excited about supporting the arts,” she says. —Justin Paprocki

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Celia Kuruc, The Broom Maker

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For centuries, settlers bound switches and twine to fallen wood to sweep homesteads from coast to coast. In Fort Myers, Celia Kuruc honors the inherent beauty in purpose and preserves the once-essential American craft with Beach Brooms. 

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In the 1780s, Indian broomcorn—a sorghum relative—took root in the South, powering the broom industry until the 1950s, when synthetics all but erased the hand-spun tradition. Celia’s introduction came at a Sanibel Island art show 30 years ago. “It was a heaven-parting moment—this man (storied North Carolina broom maker Ralph Gates), who looked like Santa Claus in overalls, was sewing straw together with a long stretch of colored cotton cord,” Celia says. “It was as if I was seeing a broom for the first time—truly seeing it.” 

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An island bartender for 40 years, Celia learned from Ralph and became a full-time artisan upon retirement. She crafts each broom by hand, making handles out of various “sticks,” ranging from black bamboo grown in her backyard to driftwood around Captiva Island. After the wood dries, Celia sands, lacquers and pairs each handle with naturally dyed broom corn grown by her family in Ohio. She soaks the straw until pliable, then feeds it into a broom winder—one foot pumping the pedal to wrap the fibers tightly around the handle. Then, she flattens and clamps the bundle and pushes a needle through the thickest part of the base, making tight stitches at one-inch intervals—a final marriage of utility and grace.

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Her brooms sweep sand, adorn walls and, on occasion, sprinkle holy water (a priest recently purchased one to bless his congregation, preferring the gesture of water scattered across many rather than a touched few). At Fort Myers’ Twisted Acres Emporium, where the brooms are sold, passersby often pause before the brightly colored bristles, drawn, like Celia was, to the familiar turned sacred.  —Chanda Jamieson

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Michael Korchmar, The Leatherworker  

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In his Old 41 Road workshop, Michael Korchmar reads his hides’ stories through touch—grain patterns, weight and texture reveal the subtleties that separate good from exceptional.    

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The third-generation craftsman leads Korchmar, the leather goods company his grandfather founded in Ohio in 1917. Two decades ago, he moved the operation to Naples, where his son and daughter now help run the business. Often drawing from company catalogs dating to the 1930s, the Korchmars’ bags, wallets, dopp kits and accessories merge heritage craft with modern sensibilities (think: a saddlebag with slots for phones instead of notepads).

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They source full-grain hides from cold-climate U.S. and European cattle, where harsher conditions produce thicker skins with fewer blemishes. The hides travel a precise journey: chrome-tanned for suppleness in Korchmar’s Dominican Republic factory, then re-tanned with vegetable extracts before returning to Naples, where skilled hands cut and stitch each piece. A single bag could require up to 76 steps.

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This month’s launch of an all-American line—using Central Plains hides, Midwestern tanneries and Rhode Island zippers—represents the culmination of a years-long quest to put passion over profit. A century in, the Korchmars know artistry lives in the process—measured in every bag. — Addison Pezoldt

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Ernesto Pinero, The Cigar Roller

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In Bonita Springs’ Flamingo Island Flea Market, third-gen Cuban torcedor Ernesto Pinero balances a freshly rolled cigar in his hand. He passes the Habano to an eager Michigan transplant and first-time client. Between the draw and exhale, two men from different worlds find common ground.    

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Ernesto’s craft is deeply rooted—his grandfather planted tobacco in Cuba in the early 1900s; his father opened a factory in 1951 before Castro forced the family out. “My hands move as my father’s did and his father’s before him,” he says.     

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Rolling since age 14, Ernesto approaches cigars’ three core components (filler, binder, wrapper) with intuitive mastery. Once the leaves are moistened and destemmed, he begins: three to five filler leaves, from aromatic seco to bold ligero, are bunched to create air channels. A light touch is critical— packing too tightly restricts the draw; too loose creates uneven burn. His fingers glide forward and back, like a timeworn waltz. He wraps the bunch in a binder, placing the milder tip toward the end so the smoke deepens with each puff. The cigar rests in an antique zebrawood mold before getting its final wrapper, which Ernesto trims with an heirloom chaveta, or roller’s knife. A touch of vegetable glue seals the cigar.

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The result? A slow burn and even flavor—passed from hand to hand, from one life to another. —C.J.

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Conrad Williams, The Glassblower

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Naples glass artist Conrad Williams can’t always explain how he knows when molten glass is ready to shape. “It’s something that only comes with practice and failure,” he says.     

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Conrad has been fine-tuning his craft for more than two decades, drawn to an artform that demands speed, control and a high tolerance for failure. He trained under glass legend Dale Chihuly and with American glass pioneer Benjamin Moore, whose studio walkways were lined with decades’ worth of broken pieces. “I saw glass failures from all of my idols,” he says.     

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Today, he runs a backyard forge out of his home near Lowdermilk Park, where a rotating cast of artisans helps him execute larger commissions, like his recent sea glass-inspired installation at The Naples Players’ Sugden Theater. From gathering glass for drinkware from the 2,100-degree furnace to coaxing color into orbs, bowls and oil lamps, Conrad makes split-second decisions guided by intuition. He can read the slightest change in molten glass’ hue or texture, knowing when to add heat and when to hold back.     

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For Conrad, the work is equal parts control and adaptation. He recalls watching the late Pino Signoretto masterfully reattach a broken angel wing during a live demonstration. The crowd thought it was ruined, but Signoretto calmly lifted the wing, grabbed a blow torch and corrected his mistake. Moments like these inform his practice: He knows recovery from failure, not perfection, forges mastery. —Emma Witmer

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Chanda Jamieson, The Preserver

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When she’s not crafting with words—writing for this magazine and her poetry—Chanda Jamieson is often found with a fillet in hand, reviving disappearing Gulf flavors through her label, The Fisherman’s Daughter. The smoked mullet spread for which she is known starts with a net tossed from a skiff’s bow, cast by kin—her dad, brother or her 7-year-old “fishergirl.”    

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Chanda turns their catch into the heritage foods she grew up eating—seafood salads, soups and smoked fish dips. The humble mullet is her family’s prized harvest—and one of the Gulf’s most sustainable, with fast respawn and deep local knowledge guiding the catch. The Jamiesons, among the region’s last mullet fishers, strive to reintroduce this onetime staple to our collective palate.     

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The Fort Myers native smokes the fish over native buttonwood logs from Pine Island. She shreds the fillets, dripping with golden fat, and adds just enough mayonnaise to bind the mixture. Her foods, primarily sold at farmers markets, now appear in other locations, including Naples wine bistro Nat Nat, which serves her mullet dip atop focaccia, sprinkled with fresh dill. Chanda sees consumer tastes shifting, rejecting technology-dependent lifestyles in favor of homegrown industries. “There’s a sense of the ‘new traditionalists,’” she says. “Younger folks are sort of clinging to these things that feel built to last, that feel sustainable, that are made by hand and made with attention and care.”     

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This summer, Chanda is experimenting with bottarga (salted, cured mullet roe) and bream, a snook-like fish known to old-timers as “goats” for their guttural cry. “As we realize our resources are not infinite, we return to those traditions,” she says. “We hold them closer.” —Jennifer Reed

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Drew Chicone, The Fly Designer

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After he’d won “fly tyer of the year,” published his 17th book, won best in show—twice—and appeared in 70-plus publications, Drew Chicone wondered: What’s next? The Fort Myers saltwater fly tying master had yet to catch a record-breaking trophy on one of his designs. Game on. Last year, off Tarpon Springs, he cast his Sanibel Cannibal, a yak-hair baitfish. By day’s end, he had broken a record for his gag grouper catch.    

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The fly is one of about 50 patterns Drew has published. Working from his Whiskey Creek workshop, the fishing guide dives deep into ichthyology, studying how fish feed and behave to craft lifelike flies, each engineered for a specific species, scenario and strike response. “A great fly needs to have three abilities: durability, castability and fishability,” he says.     

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He morphs fur, foam, feathers and repurposed household items—like dish scouring pads and Kool-Aid, his go-to dye—into fish, crabs and shrimp that look and move like the real thing. Early on, he counted hairs strand by strand. Now, he trims by feel, using his palm lines as guides. He wraps thread to form bodies, adds bead-chain eyes, builds movement with fibers and seals the flies in acrylic. One award-winner used foam sliced into noodle-like strips—an idea sparked mid- Italian dinner—to solve a buoyancy issue deer hair couldn’t. 

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To him, making the fly makes catches sweeter. That’s why he teaches anyone willing to learn. “Catching a fish on something you create is far more gratifying than buying something off the shelf,” Drew says. “In your mind, you think, ‘I’ve tricked the fish. I’ve cracked the code.’” —J.R.

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Jordan Blankenship, The Ceramicist

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In her Estero home studio, Jordan Blankenship shapes clay with the grace of someone who’s logged her 10,000 hours. “I could throw all day,” she says. “It’s all about being on the wheel and having that time to explore forms.” 

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Her minimal, modular designs—ranging from speckled white juicers to satin-black candleholders—invite mindfulness in everyday routines. Jordan sees each piece as an invitation to slow down and find intention in routine acts like brewing coffee or setting a table. Forms begin with her daily life, developed in her studio and tested at home to ensure function drives design. 

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Jordan works with glazes she’s developed through years of experimentation. Some designs incorporate cork—used as built-in coasters or lids—for warmth and utility. Her approach resonates widely—from Narrative Coffee Roasters in Naples, where she made the branded mugs, to the more than 50 retailers that stock her work nationwide. As her brand grows, Jordan still throws each piece by hand, producing about 100 each week.    

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A Florida Gulf Coast University graduate with an MFA from the University of Massachusetts Dartmouth, Jordan brings artistic vision and technical precision to her line. In her hands, utility becomes the highest art. —Jaynie Bartley

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Joanna Janusz, The Sculptor

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Imprints ripple across Joanna Janusz’s stone-like shelves, mirrors, floor lamps and stools. “It should be earthy, organic,” she says. The pieces, reminiscent of design greats Isamu Noguchi and Pierre Szekely, echo our coastal terrain.     

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The ZOA Concept co-founder relocated from Poland to Naples with her daughter and business partner, graphic designer Aleksandra, in 2023. While Aleksandra manages clients and the website, Joanna finds her creative rhythm in their home studio. 

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The sculptor taught herself to work with clay before discovering hempcrete, a plant-based composite made from hemp fibers and hydraulic lime. The eco-friendly material sculpts like clay, looks like concrete, and creates shapes without needing molds or kilns. Joanna starts a project with a miniature clay prototype—which she keeps as a memento—before layering hempcrete for the full-scale version and allowing it to air-dry. “It’s my tiny collection,” the artist says with a laugh. Mineral-dyed plaster adds organic color, and sanding creates the final concrete-like finish.

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Mother and daughter share their home with the commissions Joanna has drying throughout the space. Next, they’re dreaming up a line of earth-toned, hempcrete furnishings, incorporating elements of epoxy for a glossy juxtaposition. —J.B.

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Tyler MacDonald, The Luthier

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Marco Island native Tyler MacDonald runs his hands over storm-felled trees, reading their stories—each knot echoing branches grown and lost, rings recording the complex chemistry of the soil from which they sprang. He whittles the aged trunks into handcrafted electric guitars.    

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Sound waves echo through the hardwoods’ unique grain patterns, shaping the guitar’s tone. Tyler gravitates toward hurricane-split hardwoods like Cuban mahogany, a smooth-grained South Florida native whose pinkish-red hue deepens with time. A neck crafted from sinker redwood, reclaimed from California riverbeds, lends a brilliant, almost liquid sound, as if the grain’s striations were little currents set to time. “Each guitar tells a story, the same as every tree. It could be hundreds or thousands of years old,” Tyler says. “It knows what it wants to be—I just have to live with it for a while.”    

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In 2019, Tyler, eager to learn how to play the guitar, immersed himself in the instrument’s mechanics. Now, with over a hundred species of wood collected, the 30-year-old maker moves through his Naples Art District studio with the eye of an artist, balancing light, color and composition until a shape emerges. Using saws and hand planes, he cuts and curves harvested slabs to craft the guitar’s body, with shoulders, a waist, belly and back, while primitive chisels and sandpaper refine the head and neck. Tyler completes 10 to 15 guitars annually, each the result of years of refinement. “They have distinct personalities,” he says. “You can feel the chords vibrating into the wood—these trees turned guitars turned human song.” —C.J.  

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