The Origin Story:
“In 2010, I was knee-deep in scrap metal, running Dr. Copper Scrap Metal—a business built on demolition, not design. Back then, copper was just a commodity. Until one day, crawling through a condemned Merrill Lynch data center, I saw it: a labyrinth of 480-volt busbars, gleaming like cathedral pipes. My crew called it ‘trash.’ I called it art waiting to happen.

But it wasn’t until 2024, in a friend’s mancave, that lightning struck. Under a crank table, I found beauty in forgotten gears—the kind most people incinerate. He dared me: ‘Build it.’ So I did. Now, I don’t just salvage metal. I autopsy it, resurrect it, and give it a second life as functional rebellion.”

The Mission:
“Vintage Metal Designs isn’t a furniture company. It’s a witness protection program for copper. Every piece I forge—whether a $100k conference table or a Wall Street tycoon’s fireplace mantle—starts in a scrapyard. I dump 5,000-pound boxes of ‘trash,’ sort it by hand, and listen. The metal tells me what to build. Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it screams.

My process? Equal parts madness and machinery. I’ve spent nights in a freezing garage, microdosing inspiration, machining copper bars into jaw-dropping skeletons for glass-top tables. I’ve smuggled relics from Bloomberg’s dead servers, Merrill Lynch’s industrial carcasses, and Lady Liberty’s patina muse. And every piece I create? Signed with a fingerprint in molten wax. Because mass production is for the unimaginative.”

Why Copper?:
“Copper isn’t a material—it’s a survivor. It outlives empires, escapes smelters, and refuses to die. I’m just its translator. When you commission a VMD piece, you’re not buying furniture. You’re adopting a story. That coffee table? It once powered a Fortune 500 empire. That wall sculpture? It narrowly escaped becoming a sewer pipe. This is upcycling with a pulse.”

The Alias:
“Call me Dr. Copper—part artist, part mercenary, full-time metal addict. I work best after midnight, often with a blowtorch in one hand and a mushroom chocolate in the other. My lab? A suburban garage. My clients? High-net-worth rebels, architects with a death wish, and corporations tired of playing it safe. I don’t do catalogs. I do legacies.”

Beyond the Workshop:
“When I’m not elbow-deep in scrap, I’m a dad. Two sons, 13 and 10, who’ve inherited my obsession with turning chaos into beauty (and my distaste for assembly instructions). We log 15,000 miles a year for their sports, but every highway exit has a scrapyard—and every scrapyard has a story.”