Gotas

A drop is the smallest whole thing.
The mosaic is made of thousands, counted one by one.

A drop is the smallest complete form — round where it rests, drawn where it falls. Gotas borrows that shape and repeats it eight times, each one different, none twice.

The tops are glass mosaic on iron: reds, ambers, golds and smoked silvers, laid in bands and loops that pour from one colour into the next. Mosaic is patience measured in fragments — each tessera set by hand, one after another, the way anything worth making is made: slowly, and by drops. The reds and ambers carry heat; the form itself is a drop, caught before it falls.

Eight tables, one family. Together they tile the floor like a spill of colour; alone, each one holds its own weather. They begin as a collection and scatter as the house decides — one beside a chair, two nested by a sofa, the rest wherever a surface is missing. The set completes itself in any number.