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The following is excerpted from “Virtuoso: The Tool Cabinet and Workbench of Henry O. Studley,” by Donald C. Williams, with photographs by Narayan Nayar.

In a space of just 10” x 39” x 19-1/2”, H.O. Studley managed to arrange – with perfection – more than 250 of his tools into a dovetailed mahogany cabinet that has captivated tens of thousands of woodworkers since it was first unveiled in 1988 on the back cover of Fine Woodworking with a single shocking photograph.

After a brief stay at the Smithsonian, the cabinet was sold to a private collector and hadn’t been seen by the public for well over a decade. Studley’s workbench has never been on public view.

For four years, Donald Williams and a team of supporting characters researched, documented and photographed both the cabinet and Studley’s equally amazing workbench to create “Virtuoso: The Tool Cabinet and Workbench of Henry O. Studley.”

This book is an in-depth examination of one of the most beautiful woodworking tool chests ever constructed and presents the first-ever biography of Studley (1838-1925), a piano and organ builder in Quincy, Mass. It features measurements, details and photographs of all the tools in the cabinet. Every swinging frame, hinged panel and nook of this three-dimensional, multi-layered sculpture has been analyzed so you can understand how it folds in on itself like a giant piece of mahogany origami.

But most of all, you will see the cabinet in a way that only a handful of privileged people ever have. And you will realize that the magazine photograph that electrified the woodworking world in 1988 only scratches the surface of the cabinet’s complete magnificence.

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The generation of Hardwicks who were Studley’s contemporaries included three brothers: Charles Henry Hardwick, Sr., Henry Everett Hardwick and Charles Theodore Hardwick. It was these men with whom Studley bought and sold real estate. Again, according to Hardwick family legend, somewhere along the path of these ventures was a loan from one or more of the Hardwick brothers to Henry O. Studley, a loan that was secured with his tool cabinet as collateral. It is unknown whether the loan was part of a specific real estate transaction or simply part of a larger portfolio of activities.

This scenario of the tool ensemble being collateral does make sense at some level. We know these basic facts: Studley was deeply engaged in real estate deals, including many with the Hardwick family; he possessed the tool cabinet preceding his retirement about 1919, as proved by the photographic portrait; about that time his wife had recently died after a lingering and debilitating illness; and Studley’s own health began to fail shortly thereafter. It is not a great leap to wonder if any of these events had financial implications, and the conveyance of the tool cabinet and workbench to the Hardwicks was a consequence of that circumstance.

At first, I arrived at that conclusion because it made sense. However, an examination of the public records surrounding the Stetson and Studley family finances does not support the idea that Studley’s disposal of the tool cabinet and workbench was financially driven. His wife was from a wealthy family, and he had become wealthy himself along with her during their long marriage. A Stetson family deposition from 1940 relating to the disposition of some family assets states that [Mrs. Studley] “died without leaving any estate as she was bedridden for six years prior to her death and had used all her savings for expenses.” This deposition, however, does not align with the facts of Abbie’s will and probate, which lists substantial assets.

Given the probability that Studley’s finances did not force him to relinquish his tool cabinet, an equally plausible possibility, and in fact my own inescapable conclusion, is that it was a simple gift from Studley to Mr. Hardwick as a gesture of friendship and generosity, especially given that Studley was retired from the workshop and that he had presumably prospered through his partnerships with the Hardwicks over many years.

There is of course at this point no way to know the circumstances of the transaction and transfer; there is no known documentary evidence for the change in ownership. Still, it makes for some fascinating contemplation to consider the series of events at the end of Studley’s life that led him to part with this treasure, an inspired product of his own genius and hands.

Whatever the cause, the responsibility for custody and care of the tool cabinet and workbench now rested with the Hardwicks. Were it not for this caprice, the Hardwicks might be best known for their granite quarry and a scandalous murder that occurred there on July 29, 1910. In this sensational crime, Henry E. Hardwick and Mrs. Marianna Restelli, among others, were killed by her son, a quarryman/stone cutter named Luigi (Louis) Restelli. The relationship between Mr. Hardwick and Mrs. Restelli is unknown, and their simultaneous murder may be entirely coincidental.

Luigi Restelli was known to associate with an anarchist cell in Quincy, and a contemporaneous account in The New York Times suggests that the Quincy cell was under instructions from anarchist headquarters in Barre, Vt., to “kill rich people.” Numerous contemporaneous sources affirm the same account. The consensus for the motive behind the attacks seems to be “Madness” brought on by debt, and Restelli’s body was found in a nearby quarry pit following his suicide.

Interestingly, those infamous events are the first solid reference for anything dealing even remotely with the provenance of the tool cabinet ensemble. Yet those events have nothing to do directly with Studley or his cabinet, and tell us nothing new about the circumstances of its creation, the particulars by which it changed hands, nor even why it changed hands. But the events of that fateful day did cast the die for the chain of custody of the cabinet to this very day. Again, we do not know precisely when nor why it came into the Hardwicks’ possession, but we know where it went from then on.

With the murder of Henry Everett Hardwick, his son Charles Henry Hardwick (the first), a bachelor, inherited the family fortune and assets. This fortune eventually included the tool cabinet and workbench.

The detail of Charles Henry Hardwick’s bachelor status is critical to the story. It meant that on his death the progression of the family properties moved into the lineage of his brother Robert A. Hardwick, then down through Robert’s only son Charles Henry Hardwick II, Peter’s father, and then to Charles Henry “Hank” Hardwick III, Peter’s older brother. Hank was the family heir as the oldest son of his generation, and so inherited everything including the Studley tool cabinet. The final Hardwick steward of the tool cabinet was Charles Henry Hardwick II’s younger son Peter (thus not a primary heir), who owned it from the 1970s into the end of the 1990s.

Peter’s father, Charles Henry Hardwick II, died tragically and unexpectedly at the age of 44, predeceasing his own father.

Peter Hardwick’s earliest memories of the tool cabinet were in the 1950s when he was visiting his great-grandfather’s giant stone house in Quincy. The tool chest was displayed in the second-floor hallway next to the law office of his great uncle Charles, the older, bachelor brother of Peter’s grandfather Robert. The tool chest was protected behind a plastic panel. There it remained throughout Peter’s youth, adolescence and early adulthood, and in profound understatement he says, “It was very interesting to a little boy.”

Peter also recalls the workbench first being used as a table in the “stable-boy’s quarters above the garage” in Quincy and then the base alone used as an elegant dressing table in the mansion without the slab workbench top attached.

The Family Moves to Maine
Peter joined the military in the 1960s, went to Vietnam and, “A lot happened [with family activities] during that time.” During Peter’s military service, his grandfather Robert and brother Hank sold the big house in Quincy and moved to property the family owned in Maine. They took everything from the Quincy house to Maine, including the tool cabinet and workbench, plus as much of the fine Studley handiwork from the granite house as they could move, including a number of fireplace surrounds. Two of those wound up in the farmhouse where Peter lives; the remaining examples were installed in grandfather Robert’s nearby house.

Peter returned from the military and moved to Maine about 1970 where he worked on the family farm. The three men, Peter, Robert and Hank, lived on adjacent family properties in Maine.

When Peter’s grandfather Robert died in 1976, “Hank,” Peter’s older brother by three years, inherited the family properties and possessions, including the tool chest and workbench. Hank’s interests lay in other directions so the tool cabinet and workbench remained in storage in a family barn. All the while, Peter never forgot the captivating collection he remembered as a boy visiting his great-uncle’s law offices in the family home in Quincy.

Once the collection passed to the ownership of his brother, Peter urged him to “take care” and preserve the tool cabinet and contents. In the early 1970s Peter offered to purchase the tool cabinet and related accouterments, including the workbench, and as part of the transaction the brothers retained an antiques dealer to appraise it. The dealer pronounced the tool cabinet and its contents as “something special” and appraised it at $500.

Always (and still) a car buff, Peter owned a pristine 1934 Ford four-door sedan that was dark blue with low original mileage. Fortunately for our story, Hank was very much interested in the car and a deal was struck between thetwo brothers. Peter promptly made the trade and took possession of the tool cabinet and displayed it in his parlor for more than a decade.

The Fan Frenzy Begins
In the late 1980s Peter installed a new chimney in his home, and, in doing what guys do on such a momentous occasion, invited a friend over to show off his newly completed project. This friend, an insurance agent, saw the tool cabinet, recognized its special-ness and encouraged Peter to insure it. This event, Peter said, “Opened a can of worms!”

Peter tried to figure out exactly what it was that he had and how much to insure it for, and so he turned to Fine Woodworking, the Smithsonian and an antiques appraiser for answers. At Fine Woodworking magazine, Senior Editor Sandor Nagyszalanczy took the call and carries the memories vividly.

In early 1988, Nagyszalanczy made arrangements to go visit it during another scouting trip to Maine. When he opened the chest, it was, and I am quoting him, “Jaw dropping to floor!” He set up to take the photographs that eventually entered directly into our collective consciousnesses via the backcover of that magazine.

At that moment, Peter’s life of stewardship of the tool cabinet changed forever. In an age before e-mail, the result of that single back-cover image – and the ensuing posters – was an onslaught of actual “fan mail” for the tool cabinet that overwhelmed him. He received so much mail that he rented a dedicated post office box just for the unsolicited correspondence being forwarded to him by Fine Woodworking. Peter’s only regret from this period was that he did not save the fan mail.

The Smithsonian
One of the correspondents was the Smithsonian Institution’s National Museum of American History Curator David Shayt. While on vacation, Shayt visited Peter and they struck up a fast friendship based initially on their mutual interest in the tool collection, but it soon evolved to reflect the fact that both men were affable and genuinely good guys.

At the time, Peter had a dilemma. He owned a family heirloom that was also a monumental piece of Americana, and he was concerned about its security and preservation in a simple Maine farmhouse. Shayt proposed a temporary solution. What if Peter loaned the tool cabinet to the Smithsonian for a 10-year period, during which the Smithsonian would bear all the responsibility for it? Once again, Peter reached an agreement to foster the care and preservation of a genuine national treasure, a theme that has touched him throughout his life.

While at the Institution the cabinet was conserved and exhaustively documented, and included in a small vignette adjacent to the exhibit “Engines of Change: The American Industrial Revolution 1790-1860,” with several other tool chests and cabinets for various trades. Though the larger exhibit lasted almost 20 years (late 1986 to mid-2006), the Studley tool cabinet was included for perhaps only a third of that time, probably from about 1992-1999. No doubt seen by thousands of woodworkers there, the Internet has numerous accounts of woodworkers who were captivated by it. I spoke recently with one visitor, a woodworker, who recalls it “being displayed a long way back from the glass, and in the dark.”

During the time of the Smithsonian possession, the collection was photographed and documented, and underwent a thorough cleaning and some conservation treatment, as well as being included in the small exhibit. Meanwhile, the torrent of fan mail kept coming, becoming even more of an avalanche with the issuing of the poster, then a Fine Woodworking article, a second edition of a poster and finally a third. The maelstrom of mail led Peter to reconsider his continued ownership of the collection.

And it was one of those letters that again changed the course of the Studley tool cabinet’s history.

Enter Mister Stewart
Among those letters Peter received in the late 1990s was a polite and understated letter from Mister Stewart that expressed admiration for and interest inthe tool cabinet. After subsequent correspondence and conversations, Peter decided that Mister Stewart was the right person to become the new ownerand caretaker for the treasure.

The following is excerpted from “Virtuoso: The Tool Cabinet and Workbench of Henry O. Studley,” by Donald C. Williams, with photographs by Narayan Nayar.

In a space of just 10” x 39” x 19-1/2”, H.O. Studley managed to arrange – with perfection – more than 250 of his tools into a dovetailed mahogany cabinet that has captivated tens of thousands of woodworkers since it was first unveiled in 1988 on the back cover of Fine Woodworking with a single shocking photograph.

After a brief stay at the Smithsonian, the cabinet was sold to a private collector and hadn’t been seen by the public for well over a decade. Studley’s workbench has never been on public view.

For four years, Donald Williams and a team of supporting characters researched, documented and photographed both the cabinet and Studley’s equally amazing workbench to create “Virtuoso: The Tool Cabinet and Workbench of Henry O. Studley.”

This book is an in-depth examination of one of the most beautiful woodworking tool chests ever constructed and presents the first-ever biography of Studley (1838-1925), a piano and organ builder in Quincy, Mass. It features measurements, details and photographs of all the tools in the cabinet. Every swinging frame, hinged panel and nook of this three-dimensional, multi-layered sculpture has been analyzed so you can understand how it folds in on itself like a giant piece of mahogany origami.

But most of all, you will see the cabinet in a way that only a handful of privileged people ever have. And you will realize that the magazine photograph that electrified the woodworking world in 1988 only scratches the surface of the cabinet’s complete magnificence.

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My late colleague and dear friend Melvin J. Wachowiak, Jr. once remarked that anything made more elegantly than necessary for its usefulness was Art. By that assessment, with which I agree, the Studley tool cabinet is unrestrained Art. There are a multitude of visual and physical moments in the cabinet that did not need to be there. Their presence is either to aesthetically enhance the whole, or to demonstrate the maker’s virtuosity at his craft and his delight in it.

The Inlays
To a modern woodworker the tool cabinet might seem opulent, even garish, but in the late-Victorian world of organ and piano building, the exuberance made sense. The material vocabulary is what you would expect for a palette of inlays on a piano-maker’s toolbox: ivory, ebony and mother-of-pearl.

The inlay techniques Studley used on the cabinet were straightforward and exacting. For the round, button-like inlays he likely used a drill bit to excavate the pockets. The inlays vary in size, but most are in the range of 1/4″ in diameter plus or minus, with a few in the 1/8″-diameter range.

Almost all of the 136 ivory inlays are buttons or roundels.

The 217 mother-of-pearl inlays are more evenly divided between buttons and roundels, and pieces of other shapes (alas, I did not conduct a count on that distribution). The shaped pieces were “made to fit,” but there is no way to identify which came first, the void or the infill.

Typically intarsia (a technique by which pieces are literally “inset” into a background) is accomplished by first creating the decorative element, then creating a void to fit that element by scribing the outline of the element on the background and excavating a void. My microscopic examination of the inlays was cursory and inconclusive, but I did not see any tool marks on the background surfaces.

Regardless of their material or shape, on all but a few of the inlays there are no irregularities until extreme magnification is employed.

The opulence of using ivory buttons, inscribed with inked numbers to mark the progression of tool sizes (for example, the graduations of the drill bits) is awe-inspiring.

There is place for every drill bit in the graduated set, and an engraved ivory button for each drill bit. Also take note of the subtle but elegant treatment of the bottoms of the spacers between each Gothic arch; the curved double-chamfer is found in numerous locations throughout the cabinet, almost never glaringly obvious.

Concurrently, the mother-of-pearl elements used as mere decoration impart an intense luminescence to the cabinet, especially as the light or the viewing position changes.

The Sculpted Details
The strictly sculptural elements of the cabinet, by which I mean those that are rendered and presented to the viewer in three dimensions, number literally in the hundreds. Because it is not possible to rank them in importance or even prominence, I will cluster them into four major areas.

First are the roundels, turned button-like elements scattered throughout the cabinet, never haphazard and always enhancing adjacent elements. There are many different sizes of roundels, ranging from about 3/8″ to 1-1/2″ in diameter. Most, but not all, of the roundels are festooned with round mother-of-pearl inlays at their tips, about which I will speak more in a bit. Each of the roughly two dozen roundels is turned from solid ebony.

Closely related to the roundels are the drawer pulls and stopper buttons at the ends of the metal tubes containing tools. I include these 17 examples here because, like the roundels, they are small, turned ebony elements.

Second are the shaped decorative elements, which are further subdivided into those that are 1) functionally similar to the roundels in that they are applied to the background, or 2) movable tabs or catches used to restrain tools. Most of these from either category are further enhanced by mother-of-pearl inlays and reflect the element outline as a whole.

Of the first group, numbering roughly 90, many serve to frame a space but others are demarcations between tools belonging to a graduated set, such as the chisels and drill bits. The second group consists of about 50 ebony tabs.

The third type of sculptural enhancements are carved elements serving as stand-alone sculptures in their own right. The most prominent of these is the drop pendant that tops the arch above the niche containing the Stanley No. 1 plane. The detail on this element is breathtaking, all the more so when you consider its scale; it is roughly the size of a dime. There are only a dozen or so of these examples in the case, but they are spectacular and attention-grabbing.

The final widespread instance of sculptural exercises in the cabinet includes the arches and their buttresses, most notably around the set of four awls above the Masonic symbol, along with those around the chisels and the two sets of drill bits, which are in the upper right portion of the cabinet on the second and third layers. The arch-and-buttress vignette framing the awls takes its place proudly among the most beautifully designed and crafted artworks I have ever seen.

Quantifying precisely the inventory of these decorative details is nearly impossible (is it a series of a dozen arches, or is it a single element of an ascending set of arches?) and frankly not especially useful.

But because you asked, I number the total of individual decorative elements to be in excess of 500.

Perhaps the most gifted craftsman I know recently replicated a single inlaid mother-of-pearl and ebony element from Studley’s cabinet and found it to be a vexing and time-consuming effort. If we fixate on the Herculean labors of Studley we might become obsessed with the mechanistic minutiae of envisioning and fabricating hundreds of stylistic touches, each consuming some quantity of a superb craftsman’s time.

Instead I ask you to think of them – and the case itself – as a unified cornucopia in which the whole is infinitely more affecting than a summation of the magnificent individual components.

Editor’s note: There are many more photographs in the book than I’ve shown here of the artistic details discussed above.

The following is excerpted from “Virtuoso: The Tool Cabinet and Workbench of Henry O. Studley,” by Donald C. Williams, with photographs by Narayan Nayar. This book is the first in-depth examination of one of the most beautiful woodworking tool chests ever constructed and presents the first-ever biography of Studley (1838-1925), a piano and organ builder in Quincy, Mass. After a brief stay at the Smithsonian, the cabinet was sold to a private collector and hasn’t been seen by the public for well over a decade. Studley’s workbench has never been on public view. In this excerpt, Nayar’s approach to capturing the monumental Studley Cabinet is reverent and moving.

In the winter of 2010, Don Williams and I calculated that principal photography and primary study of the Studley ensemble could be accomplished in a single three-day trip. Photographically, we’d have one day to shoot the tool cabinet and bench, another day to shoot the tools and a day to spare for contingencies. Don had already visited the ensemble, taken survey pictures and had worked out with the owner some general rules about how we could work with the cabinet. By studying Don’s photos and making some assumptions about the room in which we would be working, I formulated a plan for a three-day shoot and packed my gear accordingly.

It took only five minutes standing in front of the tool cabinet and bench for those plans to disintegrate. Within hours, we were discussing follow-up trips and wondering how to talk the owner into letting us take the cabinet off the wall.

Principal photography ended five trips later and spanned roughly four years.

The overwhelming majority of images in “Virtuoso” are forensic. After all, the primary goal of the project was to document the cabinet, its contents and accompanying workbench both photographically and historically. To accomplish this, we worked methodically through every artifact, capturing every detail at great resolution from multiple angles. Images from this important documentary aspect of the project intentionally forgo any creative interpretation or photographic flair. They are shot with flat, diffuse lighting on simple backgrounds to reveal Studley’s ensemble with an almost clinical objectivity.

I refer to these photographs as “necessary” images – i.e. photographs taken to address the dearth of public information about the cabinet, its contents and maker. The process to capture these images was production-like, but in no way did that diminish our enthusiasm. Many, if not all, of the objects in the cabinet are not only perfectly executed, but also bear some witness to Studley himself – be it in the way the blades evince his sharpening technique, to the patina and wear patterns formed by his hands as he used his tools. Discovering these details as we worked through the collection delighted us and reminded us how important it was to shine light on these details for others.

Like thousands of people, I became acquainted with H.O. Studley many years ago through one of the famous Taunton posters. These posters feature the cabinet in its “natural” state – upright and open-kimono, enticing and not unlike a girlie magazine centerfold. Photographed in this pose and presented in two dimensions, the cabinet registers as an exquisite piece of graphic design, mesmerizing with its masterfully arranged contents, visual elements that crescendo and decrescendo, staccato accents of decorative inlays and the multi-layered tapestry of materials, color and texture. We gaze upon the poster as we would a painted masterwork, wondering what kind of mind would conceive such a thing and what kind of hands could bring it into this world. 

Though the exterior of the cabinet benefits from the same care and precision of design and manufacture as its interior, it’s clear from a newspaper photo of Studley in front of the cabinet that the wide-open object is, in fact, its face. The Taunton posters have allowed the cabinet’s face to also represent the face of Henry O. Studley and, for many, of the very concept of master craftsmanship. So it somehow seems awkward to deem the ubiquitous, straight-on view of the cabinet a “necessary” image, as if the term relegates the most recognizable and revered glance of Studley’s masterpiece to mere documentation. But it’s only one view of an artifact that supplies infinite distinct and equally alluring views, and whereas extant appearances of the tool cabinet have more-or-less reduced our understanding of it to a single, postcard-like glance, “Virtuoso” has provided us the requisite space for exhaustive coverage and analysis. If the straight-on view of the cabinet is the necessary image, we felt an obligation to enrich everyone’s understanding of all that this single image contains: the cabinet’s layout, its suitability for use, its mechanical properties, its inner and sometimes hidden grandeur. The Studley tool cabinet is a woodworking fractal; as you zoom in on one detail, you not only see that detail in greater resolution, you discover a universe of new details.

We are proud to submit this collection of necessary images to the historical record. Until the day that holograms become widely available, this collection of documentary images should satisfy the factual needs of historians, artisans and connoisseurs of well-made objects. But the ensemble’s visual facts in and of themselves, however well-documented, were not enough for me. I placed a great deal of personal importance on ensuring at least some of the photographs in “Virtuoso” imparted more than a factual account of the Studley ensemble. Whereas the “necessary” images strive to capture the cabinet and its contents as physical forms, I wanted to find ways to visually convey its more metaphysical attributes. The cabinet alone has become for so many people so much more than a collection of tools in an elegant box – it has become legend. For me, it is no less than a testament to what our species is capable of. Studley’s tool cabinet represents the hope that with enough perseverance, the things we create or pursue can achieve some small fraction of its magnificence.

Having spent considerable time with the cabinet during the past few years, I can say without hesitation that the legendary status the cabinet has gained through that single image on the Taunton posters is well-deserved. I can also say that in this case, the legend is orders of magnitude less compelling than the real thing.

The First Five Minutes

Throughout the course of this project, I witnessed a dozen or so people encounter the H.O. Studley ensemble for the first time. I’ve noticed only two reactions to experiencing the cabinet in person. The first involves the liberal use of choice expletives. The second (and more common) reaction: several minutes of utter silence (though to be fair, this silence is often followed by the liberal use of choice expletives). 

In person, the cabinet is far more than a three-dimensional poster. It is a monument.

I have been an armchair student of architecture and architectural history for a long time, and for several years in college I was fascinated with the Hagia Sophia. Captivated by its shifting but always-prominent role in several civilizations, I spent many hours reading its history, looking at images of its interior and exterior, and studying its incredibly ambitious engineering. I spent enough time with texts on the Hagia Sophia that I came to refer to it as “Sophie.”

Years later I traveled to Istanbul in a pilgrimage of sorts to Sophie. However academically familiar I may have been with her – however many photographs and architectural drawings I had pored over – walking through its nave and standing under its dome made my palms sweat and my head swirl. As is the case with many of the world’s great religious structures, the scale of the Hagia Sophia filled me with equal parts awe and insignificance. I spent a whole afternoon in the museum, wandering its main floor and upper balcony, looking up at the architectural details and murals, realizing that the building I thought I knew existed only in books. The Hagia Sophia was not Sophie, and only by visiting it in person could I feel the weight of its history, grasp the scale of its majesty and find inspiration even in its imperfections.

When encountering the Studley cabinet in person, I believe all first-timers experience an even more amplified version of what I felt in Istanbul. The Studley cabinet features architectural themes found in and on many of the world’s greatest monuments, and in the first five minutes you stand before the cabinet, your eyes can’t help but lead you through ornamental doors and make you gaze through myriad windows. You are compelled to follow fences that divide the interior into courtyards
delineated by the lines and shadows of numerous arches, buttresses and columns. In those first five minutes you take a tour of a wood, metal, pearl and ivory palace so captivating and opulent that you forget that the cabinet is, in fact, smaller than you. Witnessing in person the masterpiece that one talented Mason created with his own two hands is as much an encounter with the sublime as standing in the shadows of structures many times its size, with masonry assembled by hundreds, if not thousands, of hands. It is no wonder that many people forget to speak when confronted with such concentrated grandeur. How does one capture this with a camera?

The truth is, one cannot. Not entirely, anyway. So the images in “Virtuoso” that carry the most personal significance for me are the ones that encapsulate some small fraction of the awe that overcomes anyone standing in front of the cabinet for those first five minutes. During the course of four years, I searched for ways to photographically convey the cabinet not as a postcard or a painting, but as an architectural space. Just as my Sophie could only ever exist on paper, for many of us, Studley has been to date a single image of a cabinet frozen in one quintessential pose. As you move through “Virtuoso,” you will, of course, see more of the H.O. Studley ensemble than has been historically possible for all but a select few. But if I’ve done my job, some of these images will bring you on the journey that I’ve been fortunate enough to take on your behalf during the last four years, and as you turn these pages, you’ll find yourself rendered mute, then apologizing to any sensitive souls within earshot. 

— Narayan Nayar