The following is excerpted from Robert Wearing’s “The Essential Woodworker” – one of the two of our books I most frequently recommend to those getting started in hand-tool woodworking. (The other is “The Anarchist’s Tool Chest.“) “The Essential Woodworker” is filled with more than 500 hand-drawn illustrations by Wearing that explain every operation in a hand-tool shop. His illustrations are properly drafted, drawn in perspective and masterfully clear.
– Fitz
Wooden handles, apart from those manufactured commercially, fall into two categories, turned and bench made. There is no great distinction between those for drawers and those for doors.
In Fig 489, a shows the quickest, easiest and cheapest form, often found on modern mass-produced furniture. A length of material is machined to section then sawn off in length. It is seldom produced by hand using moulding planes, but can quickly be made with a power router. Such handles are fixed, generally horizontally, by two screws from the inside of the drawer. Screwed-on handles, possibly in more exotic woods, in forms similar to b are an improvement.
Quality handles, in woods such as rosewood and ebony, c, are tenoned into the door or drawer. If the tenon is brought through it can be wedged. These handles show end grain on the front; this polishes well to give a most attractive appearance, but if the tenon is slotted and wedges inserted, the handle will split, d (B). The wedges must therefore be inserted at the ends, d (A). A handle tapering towards the user will need a finger grip carved underneath, e.
A full-width handle, f, housed into a drawer front gives a good grip, particularly for larger drawers. It is very effective in oak and similar woods, and where a number of drawers is stacked vertically as in a chest of drawers. The dovetail housing can be stopped just short of the top edge of the drawer.
Turned handles (Fig 490) always present end grain to the viewer, so the finish on this face must be immaculate to exploit its appearance to the full. Although these handles may be screwed from the inside, they tend to work loose and rotate; very little extra effort is required to turn a small tenon and to bore the drawer front for it, and you will be happier with the result. Set a caliper to the drill and turn to this size. Unless you are working with small pieces of exotic woods, a number of handles are turned together between centres and then parted off. The face is finished off finely by gripping the tenon either in a wood chuck or in a drill chuck. A great variety of shapes is possible and those in Fig 490, are typical. By careful paring or disc sanding, polygonal features can be introduced, B. An inlaid central contrasting dot can be added, e.g. sycamore or holly in ebony, C. Turning and bench work can combine to give bar handles, D, in which the use of contrasting woods may be effective. This style does not appear to be used in the vertical form. In oak or similar chunky woods a rotating latch can be arranged, E.
An 1803 advertisement for linseed oil, “boil’d” or “unboil’d.”
The following is by Steve Voigt, whom you might know primarily as a maker of wooden planes. But he’s also passionate about traditional finishes, and has been taking a deep dive into that subject as he works on a book for Lost Art Press. The working title is “Oil, Resin, Solvent & Pigment: Making and Using Traditional Woodworking Finishes.” We have no publication date yet, but here’s a little taste of what Steve has learned. – Fitz
A few years ago, I went looking for a period-appropriate finish for the handplanes I make, and fell into an enormous rabbit hole. Ever since, I’ve been making and researching traditional oils, paints, varnishes, and other finishes. I’ve written a number of posts and an article on the subject, and I’m currently working on a book for Lost Art Press. Along the way, I’ve found there’s a lot of confusion about boiled linseed oil (BLO). That’s understandable – it starts with the name itself. But the real problem is that the truth about BLO has become obscured behind a haze of myths and misconceptions. In this post, I’ll try to clear up some of the confusion.
A brief note on the products mentioned below. I don’t have experience with all of them, because I generally do all my oil processing from scratch, starting with high-quality, cold-pressed oil. I’ll try to be clear about what I’ve used, and what I haven’t. My goal here is to disentangle the various oils that are BLO or BLO-adjacent, so you can make informed decisions about what you want to use. I have no financial relationship with any of the companies mentioned here, and won’t make a nickel from anything you might purchase.
Modern BLO Most woodworkers probably know what’s in the BLO available at the hardware store: Raw linseed oil and heavy metal driers (mainly manganese and cobalt). The mixture may be heated to help disperse the driers more quickly, but heat does not play any important part in the process. In the late 19th century, for reasons I’ll explain below, this stuff was known as “bung hole oil.” I’m not a fan, for a couple reasons.
First, the oil the manufacturers start with is not the high-quality, cold-pressed stuff I referred to earlier; it’s cheap oil that’s been hot-pressed and solvent-extracted. The main difference, from the user’s point of view, is that it’s going to darken or yellow over time, much more so than good oil will.
Second, there’s no way to know exactly how much cobalt and manganese are added to the linseed oil. Based on how quickly it dries, my guess is that they use a lot. This is important, because the more drier you add to a finish, the more quickly it will break down. A lot of woodworkers believe – erroneously – that any linseed oil finish is destined to turn grimy and black in the long run, and one can find plenty of furniture examples at the local antique mall that seem to prove the point. But the culprit is usually either too much metal drier or improper processing of the oil.
So there are better options available, and we’ll cover them. But first we need to talk about what BLO isn’t, and has never been…
A varnish factory, from “The Manufacture of Varnishes and Kindred Industries,” Vol. 2.
Was BLO Ever Just Boiled? The most pervasive belief about BLO is that back in the good old days, it was just boiled until it bubbled like boiling water, without those nasty metal driers. It’s an appealing story, but it’s pure Internet myth: Since the Middle Ages, BLO has been made with metal driers. The idea of making a fast-drying oil without driers is a good one, but it’s a modern notion, born of our concerns with toxicity and the environment, and not old or traditional.
The notion that oil was simply boiled involves a misunderstanding of both the chemistry of oil and the historical meaning of the term “boiled.” When water boils, it undergoes a phase change from liquid to gas. Oil does no such thing. If you heat linseed oil to approximately 620°F, it starts to rapidly decompose, giving off small bubbles of carbon dioxide (CO2) as it breaks down. If you’re lucky, you can hold it at this temperature for about 15 minutes before one of two things happens: Either it will turn into gelatin, or it will burst into flames. If you manage to avoid these fates, you’ll end up with a dark, viscous oil that will dry modestly faster than raw oil, and will yellow badly. It’s not a particularly desirable product, and that’s why BLO was never made this way.
So where did the “boiled” in BLO come from? Part of the answer is that the term didn’t always have the precise meaning it does today: “Boiled” was simply a synonym for heating. But it’s also important to realize that until recent times, freshly pressed linseed oil was a lot more raw than the stuff we buy in the store today, and contained a fair amount of water left over from pressing. “Boiling,” then, may simply have referred to heating the oil hot enough to boil off the residual water. In his seminal three-volume work on finishes from 1899, The Manufacture of Varnishes and Kindred Industries, J.G. McIntosh writes “a moderate heat [is] applied so as to eliminate moisture. The slight ebullition caused thereby is not to be regarded as the “boiling” of the oil, although in former days it probably gave rise to the term.”
Now, this doesn’t mean that heating oil without driers is ineffective; in fact, there is a long tradition of doing so. But these oils are more properly called “bodied oils,” and have historically been used for either printing inks or as paint additives. Heat alone has only a moderate effect on the drying speed of oil, and oil cooked without oxygen will actually dry more slowly than raw oil. To get a faster-drying oil, we have to combine heat with oxygen, sunlight or metal driers.
Smelting lead in the 15th century, from Agricola’s 1556 “De re metallica.”
OK, Then How Was Traditional BLO Made? For centuries, BLO was made by cooking linseed oil with naturally occurring forms of lead oxide (PbO). The most common of these is litharge, which is still available today; you can buy it on eBay. Here are instructions from the DeMayerne manuscript, a 17th-century collection of recipes for painting, varnishing and related disciplines:
Take of the oil one half sextier, Parisian measure which weighs about 1/2 lbs, put into a newly glazed pot and throw in a half ounce of lead monoxide, stir a little with a wood spatula and let it simmer on a weak fire under a covered stove or in the yard for two hours. The oil becomes less, but only a little. Let it settle thoroughly and pour the thickened oil off by tipping the pot, and keep it for all kinds of uses.
Note the instruction to “let it settle thoroughly.” Litharge is only partially soluble in oil, so you want it to sink to the bottom of the pot before you decant the oil. But in addition to speeding up drying, litharge also plays another crucial role: It actually refines the oil.
Today, most people buy linseed oil in its raw, unrefined form. But historically, it was much more common to refine the oil before using it, because raw oil contains a lot of foreign material, called mucilage (sounds and looks like mucus!) that your oil is better off without. Oil can be refined in lots of different ways: It can be centrifuged with acids or alkalis, which is common in industrial refining, but it can also be simply shaken with water, a practice common in pre-industrial times. Or, it can be cooked with litharge, which acts as a precipitant, causing the mucilage to separate. The result is a dark colored but clean oil that dries quickly. That’s traditional BLO.
In the late 19th century, liquid driers (containing lead, manganese or cobalt) that fully dissolved in oil were invented, and a simpler, cheaper method of making BLO took hold: Driers were simply poured into the top of a barrel of oil. The driers would sink down, mixing with the oil, and the resulting “boiled” oil would be withdrawn through a spigot at the bottom of the barrel, known as the bung hole. Thus, the name “bung hole oil” was born. Unlike traditional BLO, bung hole oil is just raw oil, with all its mucilage, and a lot of cobalt and manganese. When it was first introduced, it was held in low regard. The state of New York even passed laws to discourage its manufacture. But faster and cheaper usually wins out in the marketplace, and today, nearly all BLO is bung hole oil. The only exception I’m aware of is Rublev’s dark drying oil, which is made in the traditional manner. I haven’t used it – I’d rather not mess with lead in any form – but if you’re curious, it’s available. Keep in mind that lead is particularly toxic for children.
If you want a lead- and mucilage-free BLO that’s far better than the bung hole oil from the hardware store, it’s easy to make your own. Go to an art supply store and buy a bottle of alkali refined linseed oil. To 500 ml oil, add 5 ml Japan drier, and mix thoroughly (500 ml is just more than a pint, and 5 ml = 1 teaspoon). “Japan drier” is an imprecise term, and different brands contain different mixes of driers, but Klean Strip from the hardware or big box store will work fine. If this dries too slowly, add a little more drier, but remember, in the long run, the less the better.
If you don’t want to mix your own, Heron paints sells a pre-mixed version that looks very similar (I haven’t tried it myself, but I’ve heard good things about their products).
If you’d rather avoid heavy metal driers in any form, read on – there are a number of options available.
A couple alternatives to bung hole oil.
BLO Alternatives When I started woodworking in the 1990s, BLO from the hardware store was pretty much the only option available, but now there are many different brands of processed linseed oils you can buy. Some of these are good alternatives to BLO, and some are not. There are many I haven’t tried, but here are a few I’m familiar with.
Tried & True Danish Oil, unlike most other so-called Danish oils, is 100-percent linseed oil, with no driers or volatile organic compounds (VOCs). I spoke with Joe Robson, the founder of the company, who confirmed that it’s a refined oil that has been heated and oxidized. It’s a nice, light-colored oil that dries faster than raw oil, but not as fast as BLO. You’ll need to apply thin coats and wait 1-2 days between applications. If that’s not a problem, you’ll find that it gives far better results than BLO.
Ottosson boiled linseed oil dries faster than Tried & True, and is made from cold-pressed oil. I’ve used it and like it, but the company is a little guarded about what’s in it. On the product page is stated that “the raw material is cold pressed stored and absolutely pure raw linseed oil which is heated to approx. 140° C.” However, on another page, they write that “both oxygen and metal salts are added to make the product more reactive.” I wrote to Ottosson for clarification, but didn’t receive a response. More generally, I get a little irked by their claim that the oil is purified by storing it for six months. This doesn’t refine the oil; there’s as much mucilage in these oils as there is in fresh oil (try washing some, and you’ll see). Despite these reservations, I think Ottosson BLO is a big improvement over hardware store BLO.
There are some processed oils that are better avoided if you’re looking for BLO alternatives. “Stand oil” is made by cooking linseed oil at high temperatures in an oxygen-free environment, so it actually dries more slowly than raw oil. It’s useful as an additive to paint, but not ideal if you’re looking for a transparent wipe-on finish. “Blown oil” is made by blowing air through the oil until it becomes very viscous. It dries more quickly than raw oil. While blowing can be used to make a nice oil for woodworking, commercial blown oil isn’t ideal; like stand oil, it’s best used as a paint additive. Sun-thickened oil is the same deal. You can sun thicken oil to whatever viscosity you want, but the stuff you can buy is very thick and, once again, is probably better used as a paint additive.
Making Vs. Buying You may have noticed a theme in the previous paragraph – the gap between what could be commercially available, and what is. We’ve all been trained to view finishes as something you buy, which means you’re stuck with whatever is available. But once you start thinking of finishes as something you make from raw materials, a world of new possibilities opens up. Oils, paints and varnishes can all be made to have the characteristics you want, rather than what some giant multinational company thinks you should want. This is a big topic – far too big for one blog post – but I’ll continue to explore and write about it in the coming months and years.
The first six chapters of “The American Peasant,” ready to edit. (Note: The book is in color; we usually print it in black and white for editing…’cause toner ain’t cheap!)
Update: Comments are now closed. And I remembered today that next weekend, I’m teaching a class on Sat.-Sun. So I’m afraid the next Open Wire will be on March 16…unless I can cajole one of our authors into doing it next Saturday.
Chris is in Florida through next week to teach two classes, and is then taking a few well-earned days of vacation with his wife, Lucy May. (I expect he’ll pop in from time to time to answer, or comment after hours on chair questions and the like.) In the meantime, I’ll be here editing his first six chapters of “The American Peasant,” and today and next Saturday, answering your woodworking questions.
So post ’em in the comments section below, and I shall do my best.
Comments close at around 5 p.m. … though possibly earlier if a personal commitment gets rescheduled for the afternoon. So don’t leave it until late to pose your question!
Punctuating a form creates a distinct beginning, middle and end.
The following is excerpted from “By Hand & Eye,” by George R, Walker and Jim Tolpin. The book is a deep dive into the world of history, architecture and design. And the authors have emerged with armloads of pearls for readers.
Instead of serving up a list of formulas with magical names (i.e. the Golden Section, the Rule of Thirds) that will transform the mundane into perfection, George R. Walker and Jim Tolpin show how much of the world is governed by simple proportions, noting how ratios such as 1:2; 3:5 and 4:5 were ubiquitous in the designs of pre-industrial artisans. And the tool that helps us explore this world, then as now, are dividers.
The key to good design is to master these basic “notes” – much like learning to sing “do, re, mi.” How to do this is the subject of the first three-quarters of the book. It offers exercises, examples and encouragement in opening your inner eye, propping it up with toothpicks and learning the simple geometry that will help you improve your design.
Punctuation is employed to create pauses and transitions to organize a design into something our eye can take in and comprehend. It’s used on the macro level to establish a beginning, middle and ending of the overall form, and can be woven into the smaller details within a form to visually string elements together.
This small inlay plays an important visual role. It tells the eye that one part is ending and something different is about to occur.
Punctuation can be used to organize a design by creating a distinct beginning, middle and end. This is one of the defining features of traditional design. So much so that it’s woven into the way we tell a story, sing a song or design a building. Our own bodies illustrate this tripartite arrangement with feet, torso and head. Because the human form lies at the very core of this traditional approach, designs are primarily organized vertically, with the beginning at the bottom and ending at the top. Without thinking, when we take in a design we note how it’s anchored to the floor and how it terminates at its highest point. In nature we find abundant examples of organic transitions. Trees don’t just jut up from the earth like a utility pole planted by the phone company. Though largely hidden from sight, the roots flow into the tree trunk just above the soil, bulging out in response to the mass above. Pre-industrial artisans wove this theme into their designs, sometimes boldly creating a beginning with a ball-and-claw foot. Or they took a subtle tack and established a beginning with a small bead, inlay or slight change of taper. Brash or subdued, they help the design tell a story.
Traditional moulding profiles often took their cue from nature.
Also note that most of our traditional moulding profiles have a correlation with the transitions or borders we encounter in nature. The series of torus mouldings swelling at the bottom of a column shadow the swelling of a tree trunk at the roots. The gentle arch of a cove moulding mimics the transitions found in tree branches as they spread to form the canopy.
Two simple punctuations at top and bottom create the major parts of this order. The bottom (beginning) portion is called the pedestal, which supports the column (middle), which in turn ends with the entablature.
The classic orders are a textbook of this beginning, middle and ending, with punctuation woven into the form from the major parts down to minor details. From a proportional standpoint they offer several practical examples of how to achieve punctuation, a reminder that it’s about the principle and not about any specific proportions. Probably one of the most profound lessons they offer is the way they help us see the internal relationship between the larger element and smaller. Punctuation is achieved by dividing up a space into five or more equal parts and having the part at one end act as the beginning or ending. The physical act of stepping off the space with dividers helps us see more clearly the proportional dynamic. When I first began making design judgments, I often had a hunch something wasn’t working. I might sense the feet on a chest were too large. But it wasn’t obvious to my eye that I was uncomfortable with the relationship between the height of the feet and height of the case above it. Walking through the different examples of punctuation in the classic orders drove the lesson home. Now, without thinking, I size up border elements with the spaces they punctuate. Often a border might be too narrow and look weak or, conversely, be too wide and look clumsy because the border element competes rather than complements. As you make the connection between the space and its punctuating border, it becomes easier to see how parts relate.
Does your eye sense anything amiss with the relation between the top and the structure below? Knowing the top punctuates the space below it helps to visualize where this feeling arises.
The classic orders are filled with examples of punctuation woven into the overall form as well as the smaller details. The overall form on all the orders are organized vertically by dividing the entire height into five equal parts and making the bottom part the beginning. The bottom part, or pedestal, punctuates the space above it. On a Doric order, divide the remaining height above the pedestal by five again to establish the ending at the top. This top space is called the entablature and punctuates the space below it. The Ionic and Corinthian orders use a slightly different punctuation sequence, dividing the upper portion by six parts to create a more slender feel.
(L) This idea of punctuation repeats itself. Note that the proportions vary (they are not all one-fifth) but still convey the idea of beginning, middle and end, echoing throughout the entire order. (R) A moulding or inlay detail can incorporate punctuation, in effect weaving this idea of beginning, middle and end down to smallest details.
There’s ample evidence from historic design books that artisans became familiar with a small handful of proportional sequences and the visual effect they lent to a composition. I like to think of them as an array of spices. It’s more important to begin by getting a sense for the flavor they impart, rather than for the actual proportions themselves. You can begin to gain a working vocabulary of these proportional relationships by drawing Doric classic orders in the exercise in Section II, Chapter 4.
Among the classes on sale at 10 a.m. is Chris Williams’ Welsh Stick Chair Class – we’ll have to dig out our Y Ddraig Goch.
The following Covington Mechanicals classes go on sale today at 10 a.m. Eastern. They will likely sell out quickly – some in seconds – so be ready to register. (But before you do, please check your calendar to make sure you can attend the class for which you want to register).
If you don’t get into your desired class, do sign up for the waitlist – because I can’t remember a class in which we didn’t have to fill at least one slot.
