The 1971 “Pagoda Cabinet” – a classical form with the James Krenov touch. Photo by Bengt Carlén.
One of the first furniture images in “James Krenov: Leave Fingerprints” – Brendan Gaffney’s biography of a 20th century woodworking icon – is the “Pagoda Cabinet” that Krenov built in 1971 from European cherry. David Welter, a student of Krenov’s then a long-time faculty member at the school he founded (now called the Krenov School), chose it to showcase in his foreword for the book because it’s one of his favorite furniture pieces.
The Pagoda Cabinet, which remained in Sweden for 50 years, was recently acquired by a former student of the Krenov School, who turned it over to Welter for cleaning and conservation. In June 2022, Welter gave a talk to the school on the cabinet and his process. Watch it below, courtesy of the Krenov Foundation.
Will the patient live? Dedicating a day to improving the details on a chair always pays off in the end. A moving blanket protects the chair from further damage as you move it around.
The following is excerpted from “The Stick Chair Book,” by Christopher Schwarz. (His “make pretty” process applies to all of his projects, not just chairs.)
“The Stick Chair Book” explores the craft of “hedge carpenters” or dabblers who built chairs for the everyday home. The chairs they made weren’t designed to impress the neighbors – they were designed to be comfortable, stout and (if you have a good eye) nice to look at.
After 18 years of building vernacular stick chairs and studying historical examples in the U.K., Europe and North America, Schwarz has figured out how anyone can design and build these chairs without a lot of gear.
Here are the things you don’t need to build a stick chair: a shavehorse, drawknife, steambox, green wood, axe or even a passing knowledge of geometry.
Instead, most of the work is done with saws (a band saw speeds things up), a drill or brace, a jack plane and maybe a couple specialty tools if you want to saddle the chair’s seat. You can use any kind of wood, even stuff from the home center.
At some point during my life as a woodworker I decided to add one more step to the construction process of every piece of furniture I build. Instead of stampeding from assembly into finishing, I added one day of work that I call: Make Pretty.
On this day I do nothing but try to bring every surface of a piece up a notch. I look over every inch – slowly – to find small defects that can be remedied, or details that can be made crisper. I look at bevels and mouldings to see if I can tweak their corners so they flow more smoothly. I look for tiny bits of glue or splinters (even on secondary surfaces) that I can pare away. I check curves and overhangs to see if they can be subtly altered to be more harmonious with the rest of the piece.
Make Pretty might sound like a drag. But I find it to be the most satisfying part of making a piece of furniture. For one whole day I get to look at a thing I’ve made before it heads off to a customer. So many times, I’ve looked at photos of my pieces that are now 1,000 miles away, and I can barely remember working on them.
Make Pretty is the conjugal visit before the great separation.
I have a set of tools that I use for every session of Make Pretty. Here’s the list: • A moving blanket/furniture pad. • A freshly sharpened cabinet scraper. • A handful of flat sticks that are covered with #100-, #180- and #220-grit sandpaper (basically shop-made emery boards). The wood backing makes crisper lines than hand-held sandpaper. • A sharp 1/2″ chisel. • A cork sanding block and #220-grit abrasive. • A small UV flashlight (which highlights smears of hide glue). • Hot water and a toothbrush (for removing the smears of hide glue). • My shop’s two logo stamps.
Sanding sticks. These bits of oak are about 3/8″ x 3/4″ x 5″ and have different grits adhered to their broad faces, but not their edges. This configuration allows me to sand one surface without touching an adjacent one.
For me, Make Pretty begins with the smallest details. I put the chair on a moving blanket and look at every joint in the piece. I ask: Can I do anything to make this better? In a case piece, this might mean a little bit of glue and sanding dust to conceal a hairline gap. In a chair, it might require a sliver of a wedge to fill a void where a wedge shifted during assembly.
I look for stray splinters where tenons were driven hard into mortises. I look for tiny beads of glue that evaded my eye after assembly.
After looking at joinery, I look at individual components. I examine each stretcher to see if there are odd flats where the double-tapers meet. Is there any tear-out I can remove? Do the stretchers transition evenly into the tenons? Can they be evened up?
The same goes with the chair’s sticks. Mostly I look to see if there are small irregularities I can correct. Many times a stick’s tenon is slightly offset from the center of the stick. A little scraping on the heavy side of the stick can easily conceal this.
On legs I look for dents that occurred while moving the chair about. Can they be steamed or scraped away? On the arms and the shoe I look for tear-out, corners that aren’t crisp and bevels that don’t meet evenly.
This process continues over every single component.
Tiny bevels. On the most visible surfaces, I use my sanding sticks to make a small bevel, instead of breaking the edges with a piece of loose sandpaper. A beveled corner feels the same to the hand, but it looks tidier (to me, at least).
After that, I look at broad surfaces. Can I improve the line between the spindle deck and the saddle? Can I make the pommel crisper? Is the curve on the comb perfect, or can I eliminate small bumps or hollows with some sanding? Are the arms perfect to the touch? (Because they will be touched.)
I spend extra time looking at any end grain that shows in the piece. Because end grain is more difficult to work than face grain, it’s fairly common for the end grain to need some extra attention to remove scratches so it matches the finish level of the face grain.
Getting Ready for Finishing When I have corrected every error I can find, I turn to making the arrises of the piece ready for finishing. In most commercial work, all edges get “broken” by a quick rub with fine sandpaper. Breaking the edges makes the piece pleasant to touch – and can prevent sharp arrises from cutting flesh.
But I like to go one step further. On the most visible surfaces – the crest, the hands and the seat – I’ll sand a small bevel using my sticks that are coated with adhesive-backed sandpaper. This bevel is about 1/32″ across. And it takes time to do it right. When the bevels meet at corners they need to be the same size.
Has a customer ever noticed this and brought it to my attention? No. But I do it anyway. I love to see the consistent little bevel as it catches the light on the corner of the crest or the hands.
Even if you aren’t as crazy as I am, make sure you break all the edges of the piece before you add any finish.
Two Demerits. I made two careless errors on this chair that only I’ll notice. Perhaps the next chair will have only one small mark.
Once I complete the Make Pretty, I have to decide how I will mark the chair with my shop symbol – a pair of dividers. I have two shop marks. One large and one small. I first mark the underside of the seat with the large dividers. Then I add one mark with the small dividers for every error in the piece that nags at me. It might be one or two marks. But it is a reminder that I’m human and I acknowledge my mistakes. (And perhaps some day I’ll make a piece that doesn’t have any small marks.) I’ve never told my customers this, so keep your trap shut, OK?
Lastly, I write the month and the year below my shop mark in permanent marker. I don’t try to imitate old work, but I’d hate for some idiot to represent it to some moron as an antique.
Fig. 33.1. Good watercolours send a clear message to the prospect that we have “a creative” in charge here. That’s a good thing.
The following is excerpted from “The Intelligent Hand,” by David Binnington Savage – a peek into a woodworking life that’s at a level that most of us can barely imagine. The customers are wealthy and eccentric. The designs have to leap off the page. And the craftsmanship has to be utterly, utterly flawless.
How does one get to this point? And how do you stay there?
One answer to these questions is in this book. Yes, the furniture can be technically difficult to make. But a lot of the hard labor involves some unexpected skills. Listening. Seeing. Drawing. And looking into the mirror and practicing the expression: “And that will cost 20,000 pounds.”
If I were learning to create presentation drawings now, I would probably not be learning analogue skills, but instead go straight to computer-aided design (CAD). A good-quality program that will link properly to a computer-aided manufacture (CAM) program would be the tool here – not a cheap 2D version, but one that will show you the job, turning it around to show it from all angles. I am reliably told that a good two years should see you fluent in CAD. We teach the possibilities of CAD at Rowden, using Rhino, but getting fluent takes time; it’s a complex program.
However this is for Lost Art Press – and doing decent watercolour presentation drawings is getting to be archaic. This is a shame, as good watercolours send a clear message to the prospect that we have “a creative” in charge here. That’s a good thing.
Have a look at nearby printing facilities. Heavy watercolour paper is like thin card stock – it’s so thick. If you can find a printer to accept this thick paper, you can print from CAD using a fine grey outline that can be gone over with pencil and watercolour to a similar effect.
I wrote earlier about the tools and what you are attempting to achieve. Now I will be specific about how these drawings came about.
Fig. 33.2. An old American-made Windsor chair in the studio that I keep as a chair totem. I look at it and take measurements from it when questions come up.
First the chair. I had the sketches; I would never go straight to watercolour without a sketch to work from. I want to improve upon it here, while sticking with what I’ve downloaded [the idea from his mind] to keep the proportions and the idea nice and clear.
The side elevation was first; this was a matter of choosing a scale to draw with. I knew my paper was going to be in landscape orientation, as I want the side elevation with the front elevation alongside so I could transfer dimensions from the first drawing to the second. If need be, I work a plan drawing in there some-where. The layout of the page is critical. So, I chose a scale of 1:5 to nicely fill the page.
I use what is called a scale rule – a triangular cross-sectional rule with several scales; 1:10, 1:7.5 and 1:5 are the three I use most. The paper is A3 (11.7″ x 16.5″) 140 lb. watercolour hot-pressed paper – really heavy and super smooth. I fix it to my cedar double-elephant-sized drawing board on the left in the bottom quarter, fixing on all four corners with translucent drafting tape. Over the years a mound of this tape has built up in this section of the board – a witness to the hundreds of drawings I’ve done on it.
I put the paper on the left to be near the ebony edge of the cedar board on which the T-square slides. I got rid of parallel motions and clever architects’ drawing aids years ago in an effort to have only simple tools that would always be accurate if I held them correctly.
Double elephant – huh?! Well, yes – it’s not a mea-sure often heard now, but it was a size of paper when paper was not measured in A-whatever or inches. In the old days we had elephants as a way to measure the size of a sheet of paper. This is the biggest drawing board I could find; it’s about 42″ x 31″. You need a big drawing board and a block of wood to support it at an angle on your bench. It’s got to be big to do perspective drawings – but that’s for later.
The first line on the page is the floor. I look at how large the chair might be, how high and how wide, then work out where the side elevation should sit on the paper at 1:5. A line for the height of the seat goes in next; here, it’s 14-1/2″; if the seat is to compress when you sit on it, I put this line slightly below the top of the seat.
Fig. 33.3. I’m working on the plan view of the seat.
Now I put two lines down for the back leg and the seat. I look hard at the sketch and how that seat slopes and how the back leg leans way back. Here, I use one of my two big French curves mentioned earlier, the one that is a big spiral, with the radius opening out as you go around it. I used this tool repeatedly on this drawing, as I wanted a family of shapes that would have the same feel, the same DNA.
I do this a lot on chairs when I’ve designed a curved back leg shape – using the curves to develop the front leg and arms, while trying at the same time to use it differently to create different shapes with the same origin.
Having put down the side elevation to the best of my ability, I think about the front elevation and the plan. Chairs are very three-dimensional; they have to look good from all around. This means thinking in three dimensions, accepting that this side elevation has a consequence on the front and plan elevation. You find yourself chasing around the image. Top. Bottom. Side. Side. Top. Bottom. It’s a subtle form of madness.
Bang in the first lines for the front elevation – the baseline or floor. Do this as an extension of the line on which the side elevation sits. Next, put down a centre line at 90°; this places the front elevation there. The front legs are next. I have an old American-made Windsor chair in the studio that I keep as a chair totem. I look at it and take measurements from it when questions come up such as: How wide should a chair be? How high should a seat be? This old chair is strong, light, comfy and good-looking all around. All I have to do is that – but totally differently.
So, the front and back leg positions are added. The front legs are 550mm apart overall, and the back legs lean out, opening the chair back up. I put lines in from the side elevation across to the front to show the top of the crest rail and the bottom back of the seat. OOOooo…this makes a nice square – or it will when I tighten it up. This is what I am doing at this point – tightening up the proportions, hiding squares and rectangles, making shapes I like, then checking them against Euclid.
You can see the seat plan view (at left) going in above the side elevation. Once I positioned the top of a leg on it at a 550mm width, I saw a problem. If that leg is to stay there, the side elevation must change; the leg must come further back. Grrrrr….
Fig. 33.4. I cut a sharp edge on my eraser so I can use it really accurately – just that line. Then, with a really sharp 3H pencil, I set about making the change. It’s always a tussle, and you can see some of my old lines compressed in the paper.
When this happens, you need look at what you have already done and accept that it can be better. On the paper, it’s easy to erase lines. I cut a sharp edge on my eraser so I can use it really accurately – just that line. Then, with a really sharp 3H pencil, I set about making the change. It’s always a tussle, and you can see some of my old lines compressed in the paper.
My drawings are nothing like it, but if you look at great drawings such as Leonardo’s “Vitruvian Man,” you’ll see they often have an air of having been carved in the paper – with many corrections and amendments.
Bean the Shop Cat is here to report that Katherine Schwarz spent a few days this week making and packing a fresh batch of soft wax, and it is now available in her Etsy store.
Aw geez…are you using me for marketing again?
Instructions for Soft Wax 2.0
Soft Wax 2.0 is a safe finish for bare wood that is incredibly easy to apply and imparts a beautiful low luster to the wood.
The finish is made by cooking raw, organic linseed oil (from the flax plant) and combining it with cosmetics-grade beeswax and a small amount of a citrus-based solvent. The result is that this finish can be applied without special safety equipment, such as a respirator. The only safety caution is to dry the rags out flat you used to apply before throwing them away. (All linseed oil generates heat as it cures, and there is a small but real chance of the rags catching fire if they are bunched up while wet.)
Soft Wax 2.0 is an ideal finish for pieces that will be touched a lot, such as chairs, turned objects and spoons. The finish does not build a film, so the wood feels like wood – not plastic. Because of this, the wax does not provide a strong barrier against water or alcohol. If you use it on countertops or a kitchen table, you will need to touch it up every once in a while. Simply add a little more Soft Wax to a deteriorated finish and the repair is done – no stripping or additional chemicals needed.
Soft Wax 2.0 is not intended to be used over a film finish (such as lacquer, shellac or varnish). It is best used on bare wood. However, you can apply it over a porous finish, such as milk paint.
APPLICATION INSTRUCTIONS (VERY IMPORTANT): Applying Soft Wax 2.0 is so easy if you follow the simple instructions. On bare wood, apply a thin coat of soft wax using a rag, applicator pad, 3M gray pad or steel wool. Allow the finish to soak in about 15 minutes. Then, with a clean rag or towel, wipe the entire surface until it feels dry. Do not leave any excess finish on the surface. If you do leave some behind, the wood will get gummy and sticky.
The finish will be dry enough to use in a couple hours. After a couple weeks, the oil will be fully cured. After that, you can add a second coat (or not). A second coat will add more sheen and a little more protection to the wood.
Soft Wax 2.0 is made in small batches in Kentucky. Each glass jar contains 8 oz. of soft wax, enough for at least two chairs.
The Whitesburg, Ky., Appalshop building (center) following the late July 2022 floods. Credit: Appalshop staff via Smithsonian Magazine
The early title leader for my upcoming book about Appalachian chairmakers was “Backwoods Chairs,” but I’m now leaning toward “Upwards into the Mountains.” The decision needs to happen soon because my book is nearing the final stages. The search is complete (thank you to those who sent me names and leads after my previous blog posts about the project [post 1, post 2]), the interviews and visits have all happened and the narrative is written. I’m currently editing, adding the photography and working through the chair builds.
As a first-time author I’ve come to recognize two things: 1) I enjoy the process of writing a book and 2) I’m slow at it. But there’s a light at the end of the tunnel at this point.
I’m working toward having the manuscript to Lost Art Press this fall.
Late last week I reached out to Eastern Kentucky chairmaker Terry Ratliff (he’s among those featured in the upcoming book) about a teaching opportunity. That was before I was aware of the severe flooding to hit communities in eastern Kentucky and southwestern Virginia. I followed up with a text to Ratliff to wish him well. He was at a local lutherie shop on the main street in Hindman, Ky., at the time, scraping the thick mud off anything salvageable in the bench room. He relayed the overwhelming mess he saw all around him.
The School of Luthiery in downtown Hindman after the floodwaters receded. Credit: Zoe Oldham
Once the waters receded the full impact and devastation became apparent. The floodwater climbed higher than any time on record in some places. In the charming mountain town of Whitesburg, Ky., near the Virginia border, the North Fork Kentucky River rose more than 20′.
For those unfamiliar with the terrain of eastern Kentucky, there are lower lying, narrow bands of land between the rocky, rugged knobs and mountains. The lower land frequently has a creek or river running through it. Heavy rains funnel into these waterways – this time more than ever before. This was deemed a “once in a millenia” storm: water over rooftops, refrigerators caught up in treetops, homes carried downriver and significant loss of life.
An environmental tragedy immediately became a human tragedy. Entire communities were slammed in the storm. The tight-knit Kentucky towns of Jackson, Neon, Hindman, Whitesburg and Hazard, among more rural other places, were hit hard.
There’s also an impact on the cultural centers within the mountains. The Hindman Settlement School and the Troublesome Creek Stringed Instrument Company are digging out, working to salvage as much as possible. At Appalshop, an Appalachian cultural archive and media center in downtown Whitesburg, a crew works to recover soiled materials before they deteriorate. Those in the community collect what’s floated away.
Clean-up efforts at Appalshop. Credit: Justin Skeens
From an article in Smithsonian Magazine: “‘Some of the film from Appalshop was all through the streets and everything,’ Austin Caudill, a Whitesburg resident, tells the Lexington Herald-Leader’s Billl Estep and Austin Horn. ‘We could lose not just businesses but history.’”
Why mention this here?
Because below I share my travels to Whitesburg in April, 2021, to photograph and study Chester Cornett’s “Appalshop chair.” And because the affected communities are home to a group of eastern Kentucky chairmakers, both past and present. The floods impact Terry Ratliff’s community (while also hitting those of the late Sherman Wooton (Hyden) and Chester Cornett (Perry County). And because within Appalachia, more than any other place I’ve lived or visited, the strands of craft, community, people and place are all tightly woven together.
But most importantly, these communities need immediate resources to aid in stabilization, recovery and rebuilding. There are opportunities to help.
Now to the unicorn that is the “Appalshop Chair,” created by the visionary chairmaker Chester Cornett (visionary: as in some of his chairs came to him in visions and dreams), crafted during the recording of the 1981 Appalshop film “Hand Carved.” Appalshop then purchased the chair. It resides in their archives. I do not know its condition after the flood.
Cornett working on a low bench, in a photo from the Appalshop archives.
It was unusually cold for April, with flurries in the afternoon. No leaves on the trees just yet. The North Fork Kentucky River ran low and quiet beside Appalshop’s building.
I traveled to Whitesburg to visit Cornett’s chair. I’d wanted to see it in person since reading Michael Owen Jones’s book “Craftsman of the Cumberlands.” In it, Jones shares a photograph of the 13-slat double-rocker, making mention that this was the last chair Cornett built, meaning this was the culmination of Cornett’s fabled and prolific chairmaking career, the pinnacle of his skills and final iteration of his making choices. I hoped to study it myself and photograph it for my book.
The Appalshop chair from the back.
The archivist met me at our arranged time. Wearing white gloves, she brought the rocker out of storage. My first impression was how solid and substantial the piece looks in person. Each chair part was shaped with the drawknife before being scraped smooth. Cornett added an extra-special touch to this piece before applying his mystery concoction of finishing oils. He stayed up all night before final filming to add a little “old-timeyness” to the chair by scorching it with a Coleman campfire burner to create a mottled effect. The initial impression by those who witnessed the chair the following day was best described as “aghast.” The scorching has mellowed over time. It’s most noticeable on the back slats.
Filmmakers Herb Smith and Elizabeth Barrett with Cornett’s Appalshop Chair.
I was delighted when Elizabeth Barrett and Herb Smith joined us to talk about their time working with Cornett. They are the filmmakers behind “Hand Carved,” and continue to work with Appalshop 30+ years later. It was their skill and insight that brought about the film. Near the end of the recording process, they realized the chair was something special – something Appalshop should own and preserve. They found the money to make it happen (not the easiest thing to do; creative rural organizations are not known for deep pockets) and it’s lived within Appalshop ever since.
While the chair has always resided with Appalshop, it has not lived a life of ease. Terry Ratliff shared that, years back, he was asked to repair the piece. A summer intern’s dog gnawed on one of the rockers. A rung had worked loose. The chair was a fixture in the staff meetings and was available for everyday rocking. Ratliff, who holds Cornett in high esteem and knows the specialness of the piece, suggested the chair receive a more protected status.
Functionally, the double rocker is not a comfortable chair. The sitter must spread their legs or sit cross-legged to avoid the middle posts. The front rungs rake against the sitter’s calves if they’re not careful.
The underside of the Appalshop Chair.
It was not made for comfort; it was made for attention and to earn a decent price for the labor needed to make it. During my visit, someone at Appalshop shared a memory of Cornett carrying his chairs to Hazard on a Friday, setting up beside a busy road to sell them, and him still being there – with his chairs – into Sunday afternoon. He made beautiful, traditional chairs but there was little local market for them. This pressure pushed him toward new ideas, in hopes of recognition and higher income. If people didn’t want his gorgeous traditional rockers, maybe a double rocker would catch their attention. Though it didn’t work exactly as Cornett intended, he began making more fantastical chairs which garnered him increased recognition (including in Jones’ book), though it did not fully alleviate his financial situation.
Photos from the Appalshop archives of Cornett’s chairs. At center is Cornett working on a double rocker.
A few details: The Appalshop double-rocker is 47″ tall overall, with the seat at 17″ from the floor; it’s 18″ deep overall at the seat (not including the rockers). It’s made of sweet gum, with (likely) hickory rungs and a hickory bark seat. The writing on the slats:
Chester
Hand Carved
For the fiming
The Appleshop
Moviey Caled
Check the Chiremaker
Direxed buy
Heirb Smith
Elizabeth Barret
President Applshop
Pine Mountin Wood
Mad I.N. N. OV. A, DEC 1977
With Our Lords Help
Scholars debate whether Cornett was an artist or a traditional craftsperson. Being the last of his illustrious career, this chair would fall on the “art” side of Cornett’s creative timeline. But that debate doesn’t interest me all that much.
The left arm.
I’m drawn in by the form, the silhouette that appears compact, well-proportioned and balanced when glancing at the rocker from across the room. It’s hefty but not grotesque. Confusing maybe, but I’ve visited the form enough times to enjoy its uniqueness. Move closer to it and the intricate, tightly woven seat becomes apparent, along with scraped surfaces and the octagonal posts and rungs that became a defining characteristic of Cornett’s work. But I’m most drawn to the carved pegs and the drawknife work – details that are only noticeable on close examination, and that elevate the rocker because of the skill and the time involved and the commitment of the maker. These details are noticeably irregular, because Cornett was human and handwork is not perfect.
With Chester’s chairs, there is incredible beauty found in the imperfections.