About Monica Fiorella

For a long time, I didn’t think of myself as an artist.

My background was in mathematics and engineering, followed by careers in programming, engineering, and financial analysis. I was comfortable in structured systems, problem-solving, and precision. Creativity, at least as I understood it then, seemed like something that belonged to other people.

Years ago, while living in Washington, DC, I did something a little out of character.

Out of curiosity — and perhaps restlessness — I made an appointment with a psychic who had been featured in the local newspaper. She claimed to advise successful business people, and I remember going in with skepticism, interest, and no expectations.

At one point in the session, she looked at me and said, very simply, that I should be making jewelry.

I laughed it off.

At the time, I was preparing for foot surgery and facing a long recovery. I would be in a cast, my foot elevated, with far more time on my hands than I was used to. I needed something to occupy my mind — something small enough to do while sitting, something absorbing but not overwhelming — so I decided, almost playfully, to try jewelry-making.

I started with beaded jewelry.

That period is forever linked in my memory to recovery, the long quiet days and evenings, and my young white cat, Fawn. He was endlessly curious, fascinated by beads, string, and especially silver wire. Recovering from surgery while trying to keep materials out of the reach of a determined cat — all while balancing a cast and an elevated foot — was its own quiet challenge. It was frustrating at times, but also strangely comforting. There was life and movement around me, even while my own mobility was limited.

When a second surgery followed months later, I needed a new challenge. I moved on to wire. Then my curiosity grew even more. I wanted to try soldering — and I was scared of the torch.

Before I had taken any formal classes — and early in our relationship — my husband helped me get comfortable with soldering. He set up the equipment with me, showed me how to use it safely, and stayed nearby while I practiced. The flame felt intimidating at first, but with patience and repetition, it became familiar. What once felt dangerous slowly became precise, controlled, and even calming.

That experience mattered more than I realized at the time.

That’s when something shifted.

Working with wire felt different. Familiar, even. I wanted to understand it more deeply — how metal moved, how it joined, how form could be built slowly and intentionally. I took a metalsmithing class at a local art school, learned to fabricate in silver, and set up a small studio at home. Evenings and weekends were spent shaping, soldering, and refining. What began as something to quietly pass the time became something I didn’t want to stop doing.

Looking back now, I don’t think the psychic “told me my future.”

What she gave me was permission — permission to explore something I hadn’t allowed myself to take seriously. The work itself did the rest.

Jewelry turned out to be the perfect meeting place for how my mind works. Designing requires me to enter a focused, internal space — visualizing, building, and refining forms before they exist in metal. It’s the same place where math happens, where structure and intuition quietly work together. The material simply gave that process a physical form.

Years later, after formal training and countless hours at the bench, I can see that this path wasn’t accidental. It just took time — and a few moments of support, patience, and courage — to recognize it.

I don’t tell this story because I believe in predictions.

I tell it because sometimes we don’t realize we’re ready until life slows us down just enough — and someone stands beside us long enough — to let something important begin. Sometimes a single, unexpected encounter — small and easily dismissed — can quietly alter the direction of an entire life.