What sparks that sublime, primeval folly that drives an artisan?
When for the first time he brushes his hands across the fibers of rough untouched matter and his eyes can already feel the unexpressed shape of what will be?
What solves that fragile but necessary hesitancy that at some point almost inexplicably takes flight and grabs, tames, and reveals the shapeless shape to free it from the prison of the unexpressed?
So that he can offer it (or maybe restore it), through refined and perfected skills, to the world of tangible objects?

Ultimately it is a mystery. 

One thing is certain: it's a pure and fulgent force, silvery and oddly nocturnal, because it is born and fed by the luminescent darkness of dreams. And it's in the space and domain of dreams that the creative spirit is cyclically renewing, thus enduring constantly young.
Young because it crosses over what was “yesterday” and yearns for what will be “tomorrow.” It is in the embrace of a new emotion and an ancient desire that a faint and vague idea that is nothing more than a "good vibration" then transmutes into a bright, clear horizon that only wants to be reached without hesitation.

Creating a pipe with one own's hands and through the soul, for an artisan who is free and reckless and fearless enough, is always a pure and strong endeavor.

Or rather, a young and strong one.