Why I Chose Stone: My Path to this Timeless Craft

I didn’t set out to become a stonemason. In fact, I nearly became a carpenter.

Back in tenth grade, I had just finished school in Germany and was looking to begin my Ausbildung. I’d planned to train as a Tischler (joiner/carpenter) at the Meisterschule für Handwerker in Kaiserslautern, but the class was full. I was told I could spend a year in another trade at the school and then transfer.

So, one day soon after the bad news, I wandered the school halls, unsure where I was headed, just trying to find a direction, a Trade I could spend a year in passing time. That’s when I met Mr. G.

He saw me walking around and stopped to ask what I was doing there. I told him the situation. He nodded, then smiled and said, “Come with me.” What followed was a tour — not just of rooms, but of a world I didn’t know existed: the Steinmetz Abteilung, the stonemasonry department. It was in a separate part of the school I hadn't even seen before.

He showed me the chisel-scarred stones, the forged tools I didn’t yet recognize, the sculpting studio with clay, plaster, and silicone molds. He spoke of the history carved into cathedrals, the geometry behind arches and tracery, the geology of stone, the techniques of restoration. It was all so foreign — and yet it felt like home, the history and dusty work shops called me.

I knew instantly: this wouldn’t be just one year. I wanted all three.

My training began a week late — I hadn’t expected to end up here, after all — but I was lucky not to have missed much. The first few weeks were spent learning how not to crush your hand with a hammer and chisel. We practiced smoothing surfaces, learning rhythm, control, patience.

In the technical drawing room, Mr. R taught us the details that ground a good plan: how different pencil weights communicate intention, where name and date go on a proper drawing. Mr. D led us through history, architecture, geology. Our first week included the study of ancient walls — dry stack, angled stones, split versus carved. Mr. M, our sculpture teacher, taught us to form hollow shapes in clay, to think in volume, tension, curve.

There was no single moment when it “clicked.” No lightning bolt. Just a slow, deepening understanding of what this craft really meant — not just practically, but philosophically. This wasn’t work you learned in order to get it done and go home. This was legacy. It was about shaping materials that would outlive you. It was about history, touch, memory, and meaning.

Most of all, it was about connection.

I’ve always loved working with my hands. But this — this didn’t feel like school. It felt like something I wanted to learn. Not for a test, not for a grade, but for the sake of understanding. It lit up things I already loved: sculpture, structure, problem-solving, heritage.

And now, years later, as I work toward becoming a lead architect on sacred and historic buildings, I carry that first day with me. That quiet hallway. That generous teacher who opened the door and said, “Come and see.” He didn’t just introduce me to a craft. He showed me a way of life — one I now feel called to pass on.

This blog is part of that.

To preserve and share the timeless craft of stone.