our original inspiration

Yep. It's all about the three-dimensional window box.
I’ve lived my adult life in Austin, Texas, but my beloved hometown is Kansas City. The house I grew up in was decidedly chaotic, but it was also interesting. My eccentric father loved to boast that instead of buying a baby carriage for three children under the age of four, he invested in a bronze sculpture—a choice that said everything about his priorities. He was, however impractical, a lifelong art enthusiast.

I went to elementary school in a middle-class district, where my Colonial Revival home felt like king of the hill. It wasn’t until middle school, in the opposite direction, that I met kids from sumptuous villas or sprawling estates. Their homes carried the stamp of designer influence—Chippendale dining sets, plush white couches, wallpaper that matched the drapes, and everything coordinated down to the powder room towels. Walking into those homes was like stepping into a magazine spread, a world away from my own unique hodgepodge.

3600 Wyncote Lane was a patchwork of hand-me-downs from my grandparents and modern purchases by my parents—an Edward Wormley (Knoll) couch, a George Nakashima dining table, Michael Thonet dining chairs, Mies van der Rohe and Alvar Aalto side chairs, and my dad’s go-to—a Charles Eames leather lounge chair. Nothing matched!

At our butcher block kitchen table sat several three-legged Nakashima chairs my dad had cut down from bar stools. One day my grand dame of a grandmother took a seat and went tumbling backwards. Truth was, those chairs toppled more often than they stood steady. I can still hear the clatter they made!

I was no mid-century modernist. My natural inclination for my own first home was to select bespoke paint colors that matched the Laura Ashley prints on my couch and club chairs. It was sweet, but as I matured, my tastes shifted. 

I’m more of a minimalist now—a nod to my origins I suppose—and yes, I’ve purchased my share of modernist pieces, including an elegant Aalto lounge chair upholstered in a burnt copper Donghia fabric (now worn thin) and a modular Christopher Deam credenza paneled in a mix of wood and steel (still pristine). My son has the chair and will eventually inherit the cabinet.

The art at Wyncote Lane seemed eclectic to the point of dissonance. There was the Germaine Richier Hydra sculpture, a Man Ray self-portrait, a Jean DuBuffet wax crayon on paper, a Kurt Schwitters collage of oil, shells, and cardboard, a hideous James Ensor Study for Masks and Parade (that scared me to death!) and, of course, the beloved Bentons—Thomas Hart Benton to be clear, a celebrated regional artist whose home in Valentine I visited dozens of times with my father.

The collection also included fine photography by Diane Arbus, Walker Evans, Ansel Adams, and Edward Curtis—later sold to Hallmark when my parents divorced—alongside an abundance of Native American art and religious icons gathered over countless trips to Santa Fe, New Mexico, an artist mecca at the time.

And then there was this perfect little lucite art box that I adored (still do—that hasn’t changed!): three panels, layered inside a frame, creating a three-dimensional image that utterly captivated me. Back then, it was just negatives pressed between panes, a simple clothesline, of all things, with different garments strung across each frame. 

Of all the eccentric objects in my unruly childhood home, that little art box is what grabbed me. It’s what inspired hey acrylic! eight years ago when I first realized the potential of acrylic. And today? We can print right on the acrylic. Instant art, instant joy. It’s my passion project, the piece that made me believe acrylic could be more than décor—it could be art you live with.

But it’s not instant, of course. In fact, it’s not easy to fabricate. I have yet to find a manufacturer for this product—and here’s why; these three-dimensional boxes demand innovation and precision: visionary artists willing to take a chance on an untested product, talented graphic designers able to splice static images into layers, a competent pre-press team to refine the files, high-quality printing, laser cutting, and finally, hand assembly in sequential order.

That window box remains my dream product—the one I am still figuring out how to bring to life. I’ve now got factory-ready specs to share with the right fabricator. Even better, I’m working with the amazing @karinbos, whose art is picture perfect in these little gems. Stay tuned—we’ll be shining a spotlight on her very soon.

As for the boxes themselves—well, the journey continues. I’m determined to bring them to market, because honestly? There’s a need for limited-edition, artist-inspired acrylic décor for design lovers and collectors seeking distinctive, functional art for their homes. I’ve been watching this space for years and haven’t seen anything like them. They’re the kind of art I want in my own home—and I know I’m not the only one.

I’m exploring manufacturers, including one in Asia, but producing overseas comes with its own hurdles: freight, tariffs, customs, warehousing, potential quality issues, all of it. And that also means moving away from the on-demand model that has kept wonderkin lean, into the world of upfront investment and inventory.

So, for now my focus is on building the foundation—growing steadily with my core products—shadowboxes, trays and coasters—creating income I can count on. It’s daunting, but exciting too—and I’ll keep you posted every step of the way. 

And hey, if you happen to know a great stateside manufacturer who can handle acrylic, let’s talk—because building hey acrylic! is a team effort.