From building brands
to a return to
something personal
For decades I lived inside deadlines. Inside strategy decks. Inside the deep psychology of design. My work was to understand what people couldn’t quite articulate — the unspoken wants, the quiet ambitions, the tension between who they were and who they hoped to become. I learned to read between the lines, to find the “why,” to build entire worlds around someone else’s vision. And I was really good at it...
But somewhere along the way, I realised I was giving all of that attention outward — and not inward. I could untangle anyone else’s vision, but I hadn’t really stopped to ask what mine looked like. There was this low-level restlessness I couldn’t quite explain. Just a feeling that something more personal, more grounded, was waiting.
The shift wasn’t dramatic. It was small.
It felt like going to the beginning. Back to how I grew up. Beach missions whenever we could — after school, late afternoons, quick trips that turned into longer ones. Letting things be a bit slower. Less structured. Less outcome-driven.
I also started to notice how much I respond to seasons. Not in a big, obvious way — just in how I live. Shifting things in my home, what I feel like making, even my energy. There’s something about paying attention to that instead of pushing through it. Nature isn’t random — it’s considered. And if you slow down enough, it actually tells you a lot about what you need.
Somewhere in all of that, I started thinking about Hunter & Snow. The name really came from how my husband and I work together. I’m more the ideas, the imagining, the dreaming side of things. He’s the structure, the one who grounds it and makes it happen. We’re both creative, just in very different ways. And together it works — that balance between feminine and masculine, vision and execution. From there, I started working more with my hands.
Painted ceramics came quite naturally out of that. Slower, more physical, less about perfection. Things you actually use. Things that become part of your everyday life.
THE BEGINNING
I started using whatever free time I had differently. Paying attention to what I was naturally drawn to, instead of what I should be doing. And slowly, I found myself going back to things I hadn’t touched in years. Photography. Writing things down. Making small artworks. Rearranging my home, often, and without a plan. Collecting objects that felt like they had something to them. Texture, memory, a bit of a story.
The 'Blue Robin'
Signature Collection
was where it started.
It goes back to childhood. Camping with my parents. Cold mornings, the smell of last night’s fire, and that very distinct bird call cutting through everything. The Cape Robin.
Always the first sound of the day. Always steady. Always there before anything else really started.
At the time, it was just… normal. Part of the background. I didn’t think much of it. But after losing my dad, I started noticing it differently. That same call in the morning suddenly carried a lot more. It brought back small, specific moments — tin mugs, sand under your feet, just being next to someone who made you feel safe.
It made me realise something quite simple. Love doesn’t go anywhere. It just changes form.
Blue Robin is my way of holding onto that. I wanted to create pieces that connect to that feeling. Things you use, live with, and over time they carry their own story too. And for me, it’s also a reminder.
Every time I use one of the platters or dishes, sitting around a table, it brings me back to what actually matters. Why we’re here. The people we’re with. The simple moments that don’t need anything added to them.
I think noticing is a form of devotion. To pause long enough to really see something feels increasingly rare in a world moving so quickly. But maybe that’s where meaning has always lived, in the ordinary things we return to over and over again. I believe the amount of good things in your life depends on your ability to notice them.
JO SAGRESTANO
