by Don Williams
Part One: I don’t speak or read French. Not
a word. So how did I wind up involved in a project to bring the
greatest French treatise on cabinetmaking to an Anglophone audience?
'Tis a long a winding trail.
The seed was planted sometime
around the year 1975. I was a kid working as a finisher and restorer at
shop in Florida. The old man, “Pop” Schindler, had started the company
on the cusp of our first “Great Depression” and had somehow managed to
keep the doors open, in great part thanks to his incredible depth of
knowledge and skill as a traditionally trained Swiss apprentice. Pop
was a curmudgeonly soul, and he had devolved into near-crotchety-ness
since his son Fred had taken over the business and freed Pop to putter
and mutter (in French).
One day an old-money Palm Beach client
(Ambassador Something-or-other) pulled up with boxes full of parts for
what looked like just another old piece of junk to put back together.
It was, in fact, a simple (for him) tulipwood parquetry secretaire by
Jean-Henri Riesener (1734-1806), successor to ebeniste du roi
Jean-Francois Oeben, and cabinetmaker to King Louis XVI, renowned for
the Versailles Desk.
As
I began working on the secretaire, Pop started hanging out with me. It
made me nervous, given that I did not know him well and all the other
guys in the shop told me he was a cranky old coot who always “knew a
better way” to do whatever task was on the bench and would butt in
whenever he wanted to because he was the owner of the shop.
The other guys were right.
Yes,
he could be a cranky old coot, but I grew to hold him in great esteem
and affection over time. And guess what; he really did know a better
way to do almost anything being done in the shop (except spraying
lacquer, which he viewed as a sin against nature and God). Fortunately
I was the victim of a loving and excellent upbringing, so out of
respect (at first) I let the old man blather on about old furniture and
ways of doing things. What a treasure trove of knowledge was slung at
me in rapid fire Frenglish! Once he realized that I actually was trying
to pay attention and learn, his attitudes softened and he took me under
his wing. I can state with certainty that the time with him working on
that cabinet was among the most important learning periods of my
almost-40-year career.
When the piece was finished and awaiting delivery, he made a remark that puzzled me.
“Roubo would be proud,” he said simply. With that remark he planted the Seed.
“Roubo? I thought this was Ambassador Something-or Other’s cabinet,” I said.
His look in reply could only be described as that glance from a man towards an idiot in-law or elected politician.
Then
he told me about "L’Art du Menuisier." Pop did not own a copy, but the
shop’s most important patron (a renowned collector of French decorative
arts) did, he said. A first edition from 1765 or some such time.
Someday when we were over at the estate together he would ask to show
it to me. That day never came, and I did not see Roubo with my own eyes
until almost 10 years later. I devoured the images and plates, and
wanted to know what the text said almost enough to learn French. Almost.
— Don Williams