On a single evening in October we pour four hundred, by hand, and then we stop. When they are gone, they are gone.
Reserve yoursOne pillar of hand-poured beeswax and a single cotton wick. No scent added, no dye. Beeswax already carries the smell of honey and warm dust. It does not need our help.
It burns for seventy hours. Longer, if you are sparing with it.
On the first cold evening of October we melt the season's wax and pour every candle by hand. When the last one cools, the studio closes until next year.
Not a machine, not a line. A person, on a cold night, standing over the wax until it set. The pencil number on the underside is where the flame will never read it.
When it reaches you, it is still a little warm.
One bench, one copper pot, a season's wax from a single apiary. We dip the tapers, roll the honeycomb, and pour the pillars by hand, by candlelight, the way the monks did it long before us. Each one is prayed over, and blessed before it is boxed. Nothing here is hurried, and nothing is hidden.
The once-a-year candle. Rolled honeycomb beeswax, numbered by hand.
For the table. Dipped slow, so they burn slow and drip clean.
Small light. Three little honeycombs for a windowsill or a bath.
We make it once. We sell it until the edition is gone. Then it is winter, and we begin again.
Four hundred candles, numbered by hand, wrapped in black paper. Posted in the first week of November. Leave your name and we will write when the wax is warm.
Your candle is lit. We will write in November.