Editor’s note: The chair chat you are about to read this time features a backstool wearing leg warmers. If you already feel hot, please don’t read on.
We don’t authenticate chairs – we just talk about what we like and don’t like.
We don’t know much about this chair. Its age, where it’s from, who saddled the seat… it’s all unknown. All we have is the pictures you see here and this short description from the seller: “Height 29”, Width 24”, Primitive ash back stool with chunky seat, good colour, strong and sturdy, English or Welsh, early 19th century, Paul Dunn antiques, West Sussex.”
In this shot of Chris Vesper’s shop, you can see three – no, four! – rubbish bins. This helps him keep things tidy.
Kara Gebhart-Uhl, Christopher Schwarz and I have selected a few of our favorites from “Honest Labour: The Charles H. Hayward Years” – some have already been posted; there are some still to come. Chris wrote about the project that “these columns during the Hayward years are like nothing we’ve ever read in a woodworking magazine. They are filled with poetry, historical characters and observations on nature. And yet they all speak to our work at the bench, providing us a place and a reason to exist in modern society.”
Our hope is that the columns – selected by Kara from among Hayward’s 30 years of “Chips from the Chisel” editor’s notes – will not only entertain you with the storied editor’s deep insight and stellar writing, but make you think about woodworking, your own shop practices and why we are driven to make. When Australian toolmaker Chris Vesper (vespertools.com) read “A Kind of Order” it prompted him to write a few responses – read the first, “Everything in its Place,” here; another is below.
— Fitz
Time Saved is Time Gained
One thing I’ve observed from many years of visiting all types of workshops all over the world: Everyone does it a bit different. There is no right or wrong; it’s what works for you with as little judgement as one can muster. But I have found that certain things can increase shop efficiency and personal enjoyment quite remarkably. Like stepping back once a year for a really good clean up and a think outside the box to re-organise things. Buying or making new storage for your tools (not some latest plastic storage gadget that promises to upend your life with happiness, but genuinely practical ideas like robust drawers, shelving, cupboards, racks etc.). Maybe move the workbench or a couple of machines to suit you better. Chances are if you’ve been thinking for 12 months that you really should move that material rack but haven’t, you probably should have moved it 18 months ago.
One extreme of a workspace is a floor you could eat off during work hours and barely a tool out of place – because everything has a place, and all is organised just so. The other is what appears as mess and utter chaos to the casual observer (hopefully not on the level of compulsive hoarding – that’s not healthy for anyone). But the keeper of said chaos will likely know exactly where everything is, able to reach into the darkness of a dusty corner shelf or bottom drawer and procure quickly any requested item, no matter how obscure. Many people who operate at both extremes (and everything in between) are perfectly capable of producing beautiful work in a reasonable time frame. Some work in an eternal mess; some simply cannot do this. The manners of the brain are an interesting thing.
I prefer the cleaner and more organised end of the shop spectrum – especially working as a one-man business in a very poly-technic workshop (woodworking and metal working, along with a few other tricks like laser marking in house, metrology and some hobby welding, restoring an antique machine). Forget pride or satisfaction – I genuinely find much efficiency is gained from knowing EXACTLY where a certain tool or device is, and being able to lay hands on it immediately – no rummaging through the sedimentary geological layering that sometimes happens.
I ponder my early struggle to separate the precision metal working stuff from the ravages of woodworking dust. Apart from the obvious of using better extraction than in my early toolmaking days, I’ve now overcome this problem completely by simply putting things away and keeping the things that are not like the other separated. This is relevant no matter your shop size. Small shops need to keep ahead on organising lest conditions degrade to the point where one could have difficulty getting in the door due to the goat track having suffered an overnight avalanche (not to mention fire risks and other more serious safety matters). In larger shops it’s also critical as one does not want to waste time walking to the other side of a shop only to realise the item required is somewhere else.
One method I’ve found to be immensely convenient is to have many smallish rubbish bins (trash cans, y’all) placed strategically and unobtrusively around the workshop, sometimes grouped around a specific work area. Nothing fancy. Old paint buckets or similar receptacles mean I am never more than one step – or at best an easy lob – away from a bin. I’ve found it best to have several per area, including one at either end of my benches. So with two benches in my work area and a table in between them, that means I have four bins there alone to cover two benches. Works a treat.
It saves so much time and eliminates double handling when cleaning up your own mess, even in a small workshop.
Another work area, another two bins.
This ethos was hatched one day whilst I was absorbed in a job and needed to chuck something in the bin. I had to walk several steps to chuck it, walk back and make a second trip (and I likely dropped something along the way).
Think on how many steps you walk to throw out a rag, or the packaging of something you just opened. Consider if you can turf it with little care or precision into a bucket probably less than one meter (about one yard, y’all) away from your body, then not give it a thought until you empty all the smaller bins into your main bin (which I do perhaps once a month). Sure that part takes a little time, but is a small investment in your own time compared to what you’ve already gained.
“Students are forever running to libraries to get various books – on peasant art, Scandinavian modern, Shaker, Colonial, Indian – one this and one that. They fill their heads with all these images, and then frantically try to come up with something of their own. As though you put these ingredients in a kettle, add water, stir, and cook for two hours. What do you get? Pottage. Pea soup.
It’s a losing battle. And so exhausting. Stay out of it. It took me a long time to realize this, and accept my unoriginal self. Try to find the sort of people for whom there is another originality – that of the quiet object in unquiet times.”
James Krenov, “A Cabinetmaker’s Notebook” p.45
It’s been nearly two years since we first announced my biography of James Krenov, and more than that since I began my research. I had initially hoped to keep a regular blogging practice up through the book’s writing – it turned out that I had a lot to learn. Nearly every week since that time two years ago, I’ve learned some new facet of Krenov’s life, some new angle to his approach, a new anecdote or, in some cases, entire paths and works of his that I (and the internet, his family or his close friends) had never known about. The number of revelations I had, even about Krenov’s basic biographical details or work, made me wary of putting anything down in writing that I wasn’t ready to share – you don’t know what you don’t know.
Now, with my manuscript about 80 percent done, and nearly every stone upturned, I’ve emerged with an entirely different and more total image of Krenov, as an individual, a philosopher and a craftsperson. This past week I hit a milestone in my writing – I finished my chapter writing about Jim’s first woodworking book, “A Cabinetmaker’s Notebook,” which was a huge moment of inflection in his career. Luckily for me and my writing, the book garnered him enough attention and publicity that I’ve officially entered a phase of his life where documentation and detail is no longer hard-won – writing the last half-dozen chapters of his life is more about noise reduction and separating the wheat from the chaff.
Krenov was already 56 years old when “Notebook” was published (though he started writing it a decade earlier). He shared little of his own biographic details – like so much of Krenov’s advice to students, his anecdotes and stories are presented almost as fables, or points along a story arc or in service of a conclusion, not a self-examination or real background. He writes a detailed autobiographic summary at the back of “Notebook,” but he omits so much (I now know!). He never discussed (in any length) his context, that of the students, colleagues, competitors and critics he came up around in Stockholm for 15 years. Perhaps a nod to Carl Malmsten, a few vague acknowledgements in the front matter of the book. But he had been a translator, boatbuilder, travel writer, factory worker, so much more in his youth, and as a craftsperson he interacted with a wide swath of trends and tastemakers, old and new – and he discussed very little of this publicly, though it was deeply formative in his own trajectory.
There is a context to Krenov’s writing – one that goes much deeper than the already nuanced and sensitive philosophy he expressed in his books. I just read through “Notebook” again over the past week, and with all that I know now, after interviewing people around the globe and sifting through thousands of pages of photos, letters, newspaper archives and public documents, the book’s subtleties and Krenov’s implicit understandings and influences are much richer. My own reflections, conclusions and musings I take away from reading the book are much deeper and more rewarding as well.
And a biography is not the place to write a detailed analysis of the book – that could easily be its own tome, as nearly each paragraph’s individual implications are worth a dissection (to my eye). And he went on to write four more books on the subject. I hope that many who might be interested in this biography might have read his books already – but should I count on that? And, while I think my biography will offer up the fruits of my discoveries for my readers, would they have come to similar conclusions and interpretations?
So, with so many of us in our homes, I thought I’d propose an idea, one I’ve discussed with a few fellow graduates of Jim’s school in recent weeks – a kind of book club, where we can discuss his books and work and I can share this rich new understanding and insight I have into Krenov’s writings and life.
So – a week from today, I’ll be writing my own impressions and analysis of the first section of Krenov’s first book, “A Cabinetmaker’s Notebook,” and pulling quotes or passages that I find relevant, interesting or though-provoking. Specifically, I’ll be looking at the front matter of the book (the acknowledgements, openings quotes and first essay) up to page 23.
I’d also like to include you all in this, in discussion and in my write-up next week – so, over the course of this next week, give the book a read up to page 23, make some notes or come up with a question or two you might have about the work, photography or philosophy, and post them in the comments of this post, down below. I’ll be tending to the comments over the next week, to react to or answer simpler questions, but the more complex impressions, perspectives or questions will make up a section of my own post next week. I hope you all will also interact with each other in the comments, too. If enough people are interested, I’ll look into hosting an online chatroom or live discussion, where we might have an easier time going back and forth in a more focused or direct manner.
If you don’t have a copy of the book, you can certainly order one to join in the discussion (it’s worth having a copy around, and the book is still available to order online), but the Internet Archive has also set up a digital library online during this pandemic to get people access to reading material while their libraries are closed. The first edition of Krenov’s book is hosted there, and you can “borrow” the book just as you would from a library (though you will have to make an account to do so): here’s the link. That’s the first edition version of the book, from Van Nostrad Reinhold, which is what I’ll be reading – the language and photos didn’t change in subsequent publications, but there were introductions and forewords in future editions that we won’t be discussing here.
It’s less than an hour’s read, and I’ll continue to work through the rest of the book in the upcoming weeks, provided there is an interest. There’s a good reason this book was so influential at the time – and I think many of the quotes, like the one I opened this post with, remain relevant and worth discussing in any creative practice or craft. Every time I read back through it, I find more to think about – and I suspect you will, too. I hope my insights into the book will also demonstrate that the work of this biography is much more than a service to Jim’s legacy – I think an understanding of Krenov’s life and its contextual environments informs a deeper understanding of craft and creative practice through the 20th century. It also provides a lot of material from which you might glean a better understanding of your own position and practice as a craftsperson or consumer.
— Brendan Gaffney
“Old Jim” (as he called himself in later years) reading a passage from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s “Wind, Sand and Stars” to his students at The College of the Redwoods Fine Woodworking Program (now The Krenov School). Photo by David Welter.
This is Part Two of my interview with Kate Swann of the Florida School of Woodwork. You can read Part One here.
As Kate and her husband worked on their money pit home, she started acquiring tools. “I loved using them. It was magic.” She decided to make a table. “This was still pre-internet. I had no idea how.” She cut up some pieces of wood and put them together. As she carried it proudly up from the basement workshop to show her husband, one of the legs fell off.
Kate worked for a company that did credit card processing, but she spent more and more of her spare time learning to make things with wood.
“There was a local woodworkers’ store, Woodcrafters. [She makes clear that it was an independent store, not a branch of Woodcraft.] It was a wonderland — all these amazing tools with names like Powermatic and Jet. And wood! And people who would tell you about it.” One of the staff members took the time to explain to her how the various tools worked. “I had the most blissful times,” she remembers. “I fell in love with wood. In the northwest there is such an amazing domestic hardwood scene.”
The things she made were still “not very good.” But that would soon change. The Oregon College of Art and Craft had a 13-week program on Wednesday evenings and all day on Saturdays. She signed up. She got to learn from accomplished makers who weren’t judgmental about her ideas, some of which were more sculptural and experimental than was typical of the curriculum. Her pieces stopped falling apart. People started asking if they could buy them. “I’m my father’s daughter, so I said, “How much would you pay for it?” They named a number and I sold it to them.” I began this side hustle of making things and selling them. I didn’t know what to charge for them, and they would tell me to pick a number. My picking a number was very influenced by my lack of confidence at the time. But I really enjoyed that freedom to make and just explore. A lot of those things were very rudimentary, and not structurally appropriate. I didn’t know about grain. But I just loved it. I was deeply obsessed and in love with the craft of making.”
“Swannneck”
Then came 9/11. Her son, Caleb, was 18 months old. Her husband was recalled to active duty and offered a choice between three deployments: Afghanistan, Iraq or Tampa. With an 18-month-old, they chose the famous cigar-making city on Florida’s Gulf Coast. (The two divorced in 2015.)
Kate knew no one in her industry, so she set up a woodworking shop in the garage and got a listing in the Yellow Pages. Her prize possession was a Powermatic 66 she’d bought with her first bonus check at the job in Portland; it ran on 220 volts. There was only one outlet in the garage, and it was 110. So she stretched a heavy duty extension cord from the dryer outlet in the laundry room upstairs through the window and into the garage.
While establishing herself in the new community, she decided to work on her graduate degree at the University of South Florida.
One of her first gigs made her realize she needed better premises. In an entrepreneurial leap of faith, she rented a 600-square-foot workshop she describes as a “cell-like building in a bad part of town.” Nevertheless, she says, “I remember walking in and going, ‘This is mine. This is where I want to be, what I want to be doing. It was amazing…. In the process of doing commissions for clients you learn new skills, new approaches and techniques – really, my commissions taught me.”
One day, while she was resawing cocobolo in her non-air-conditioned shop in the middle of summer, a guy poked his head through the door. “Cocobolo turns your skin orange,” she points out. “So I was looking kind of weird – orange mustache, orange creases.” The man, Carl, asked if she would take him on as an apprentice. Still thinking of herself as “the most amateur woodworker,” she found the notion ridiculous.
Not long after, Kate got a commission for a large project. The client, who was a walk-in, began, “I have this project I want built. I’ve had a couple of other people build it for me and didn’t like it, so I refused to pay them” — hardly the kind of introduction that inspires confidence. The client wanted some way to display a collection of dolls dressed in national costumes. Kate proposed a set of three cabinets. “I was completely intimidated,” she lets on now. “But I have no fear.” Thinking another pair of hands would be useful for the job, she called Carl. He came in every day, and it turned out that he was a great engineering woodworker. Thus began a relationship that led to a formal business partnership. Over the years she and Carl have collaborated on numerous pieces. Both have learned. That synergy has allowed both to grow as woodworkers and build things that neither could have done by themselves.
“The Three Sisters”
Kate decided to name the cabinet “The Three Sisters” after a bit of northwest Native American folklore. A chief had three daughters and was ready for them to be married. They didn’t want to marry; they rejected all of the suitors he arranged. In punishment, the shaman turned them into mountains so they could bear witness. As Kate sees it, “They were bearing witness not to settle for something that wasn’t right for you.” When she and Carl delivered the cabinet, she shared the folktale with the client, who burst into tears and asked, “Did you know I’m pregnant with my third daughter?”
Kate with Carl Johnson
Kate counts a piece she was commissioned to build for the chief of medicine at Harvard Medical School as one of the highlights of her career. Another was participating in the build of a 24-foot boardroom table made of salvaged wood from a cigar factory. Both were things she would never have imagined herself doing.
“Pagoda”
Along the way she discovered surface and textural embellishment, which she loves. “I found that for me, it’s one of the loveliest things to do, the gilding of the lily. The finishing touch that brings the piece to life.”
Around 2004 she got a grant to take a turning course at Arrowmont with Betty Scarpino. Sharon Doughtie was the teaching assistant; Kate was smitten by Sharon’s work with pyrography and has made that art form a signature of her own work. “The furniture making has become less important than the stories I embroider onto the surfaces of a piece,” she explains. “The pieces [of furniture] are truly canvases now.”
“Winds of the Prairie” table
Around 2008 Kate had a call from someone asking if she would teach her woodworking. She agreed. The student came back regularly. Kate enjoyed teaching, and word got out. A few years later she made a website. More students came. “It started interfering with my capacity to get my furniture pieces done.”
In 2009 Carl had bought a disused motor rewinding garage that hadn’t been occupied for a quarter of a century; after a year renovating, it became their woodworking shop.
The school building, before renovation
Eight years later, Carl’s wife retired and his 94-year-old mother passed away. They’d had a couple of difficult clients and were weary. It was time for them both to start a new chapter, and for Kate that was the School.
In 2017 Kate set the school up as a corporate entity and started developing the programming. There were many makers she admired and wanted to spend time with. She also felt, and still does, that her time at the Oregon College of Art and Craft was really precious, and the way she articulates that sense is a fitting expression of how she sees her own school:
It was there that I realized I’d found something that filled my heart with passion and let my imagination and ideas run wild, and my brain and hands play together. It was a wonderful discovery to know I could do that. That I could make — that moment of magic when you step back and think, look at that capacity to create! I think about my teachers at the time, and it was such a gift. They opened a door into a lifelong passion. I feel like I have a responsibility to open that door for others and be a good steward of the knowledge in my head. I’ve had many years of making and learned many things, sometimes in hard ways, and I need to gift that back.
Opening the school was not a scary thing, she says, but more like an opportunity to say thank you. “I feel incredibly grateful. I still don’t feel like I’m worthy. I’m humbled by the caliber of instructors that come in. The delight at sharing the craft is so rewarding. It’s a wonderful place to come and learn.”
As for her evening classes toward a graduate degree, that project also has a happy ending. In 2006, when Kate graduated with a master’s in Instructional Technology, her parents flew over from London. “It was marvelous,” she says. “That 10-second walk across the stage — I’ve never seen my dad’s smile bigger. They earned that moment.”
Editor’s note: The chair chat you are about to read (or not, if you are scared of Canadian humor) this time features two unique chairs. Please note neither Chris, Rudy nor Klaus is related to the makers of these chairs.
We don’t authenticate chairs – we just talk about what we like and don’t like based on the available photos and data. We have not seen these chairs in person. As always, you should shield small children from reading Chair Chats because the humor is infantile, and the language is salty, not sweet.
