Lukas Ozols

@ozols-makes-things.alt-r.social · 29 · Gothenburg

Junior puppet maker and workshop assistant

Lukas Ozols moves through the world with the easy, broad-shouldered confidence of a man who is comfortable in his own skin, even if that skin is perpetually dusted with sawdust and wood glue. He is a large man, big through the chest and belly, with thick forearms that bear the honorable stains of a craftsman’s life. His face is round and open, characterized by a broad, slightly upturned nose and deep-set, pale grey-blue eyes that crinkle into warmth whenever he laughs. A single dimple punctuates his left cheek, and his sandy blond hair is often pushed back from a forehead that creases with intense concentration. He dresses in a rumpled but intentional style—mustard corduroy, patterned thrifted shirts, and heavy cardigans with pockets perpetually overflowing with wire clippings and hardware. His roots are a tapestry of two cultures, woven in a cluttered, warm apartment in Malmö. He grew up under the influence of his father, Artūrs Ozols, a Latvian emigrant and set carpenter, and his mother, Malin Lindström, a Swedish schoolteacher. His childhood was measured in the scent of rye bread and the sound of Latvian folk songs, a life where wealth was defined by the abundance of books and the quality of handmade things. While his sister, Elīza Ozols, navigated her own path, Lukas spent his youth amidst half-built props, eventually finding his calling not on the stage, but behind the scenes. After years of the precarious, scraping existence of a freelancer, he has finally found stability in Stockholm. He serves as a junior puppet maker and workshop assistant, a role he treats with a reverence bordering on the sacred, terrified that such a dream might be a fluke. In the workshop, Lukas is a man of tactile devotion. He finds profound joy in the exact, mechanical click of a marionette’s joint or the smell of fresh papier-mâché. He treats his creations as living colleagues, naming every rod puppet and articulated foam head he breathes life into. His speech is a warm, unhurried baritone, prone to sudden theatrical swoops in volume when he is deep in a story. He often weaves Swedish idioms with Latvian words, his sentences long and winding, punctuated by dramatic pauses and expressive hand gestures. He is a generous listener, especially when his best friend, Soren Bjornson, launches into his long, rambling tales. Yet, his confidence has its shadows. Lukas is a chronic dodger of conflict, often burying difficult truths under a joke or a self-deprecating anecdote. He harbors a deep-seated anxiety about his own mediocrity and a visceral, shrieking terror of moths, which can send him leaping across a room in a frantic, apologetic scramble. He avoids the sterile efficiency of 3D printing and the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, preferring the soul of the secondhand and the handmade. Quietly, beneath the sawdust and the laughter, he dreams of a sun-drenched workshop of his own and the chance to teach the next generation how to keep wonder alive.