— the instinct to create, to make things with our own hands, is part of every man’s natural inheritance
I like to think that somewhere in the work we do lies the secret of existence. Something our work demands of us, differing perhaps with each individual and yet, rightly understood, demanding our best; something it gives to us, helping to mould us and through us giving a contribution to the world. The man who receives much and gives much is the man of genius, but we others, each in his different degree, have all something to give and can give willingly and feel our powers grow and strengthen or we can refuse and dwindle to less than our full stature. What that stature is nobody knows this side of eternity but we can add enormously to the purpose and meaning of our lives by trying to find out.
— Charles Hayward, The Woodworker magazine, 1954, excerpted from “Honest Labour“
One of the most difficult parts about writing the “The Curse of the Nannau Oak” (an illustrated book forthcoming from Lost Art Press) was being so far away from where it all took place. Time and money aside, the pandemic made a trip impossible.
Much of the story could have been written anywhere, but several scenes in the story, I felt, needed the eyes of someone physically there. One scene features detailed plasterwork in a restaurant in Dolgellau, a small town in northwest Wales. The other is a walk the main character, Cadi, takes with her grandmother.
The Nannau estate is about three miles north of Dolgellau. In our book (which I wrote and is illustrated by the brilliant Elin Manon Cooper) Cadi and her family eat in a restaurant in which there is a frightening and detailed plasterwork scene of a large tree on the wall. The waiter tells her it’s the hollow oak of the demon – the Nannau oak. This plasterwork scene is real and exists, as does the restaurant, called Y Sospan. Legend states that the plasterwork has actual branches from the Nannau oak embedded in it. From what I gather, the armorial (another plasterwork scene next to the tree, also featured in our book) was constructed as late as the 19th century, perhaps when the restaurant was used by the Dolgellau Cricket and Reading Club. The tree, on the other hand, was possibly constructed as part of the 1758 restoration of the hall, as the subjects’ clothing in the scene matches that time period. As far as branches from the Nannau oak actually being embedded into the plaster? Who knows! It’s one of the perks, I suppose, of writing heavily researched fiction.
A detailed Standing Building Report commissioned by the Snowdonia National Park Authority was instrumental in helping me describe this scene accurately, and find a place for it in the story, without actually being there.
Later in the book Cadi and her grandmother walk through the Nannau Deer Park. This detailed article (and this entire website, along with the book, “Nannau – A Rich Tapesty of Welsh History” and its author, Philip Nanney Williams) were more than helpful.
I think I’ve watched maybe a dozen total videos on YouTube in my life, a fact that is shocking to my children. But I was thrilled to find the delightful Margaret Hall, who lets viewers walk with her through the Nannau Deer Park. It was the next best thing to taking the walk myself, and being able to listen to her speak Welsh while reading the English subtitles was wonderfully instructive as well.
Still.
I worried.
rough illustration of Coed y Moch by Elin Manon Cooper
Elin at Coed y Moch, illustrated above
But then I found Elin Manon Cooper, who is now my partner on this project and who is producing the most gorgeous illustrations. This summer she went to Y Sospan. And she walked through the Nannau Deer Park. She saw Coed y Moch (a lodge on the Nannau estate); Aran Fawddwy, Aran Benllyn and Cader Idris from a distance (southern Snowdonia mountains in North Wales); and Yr Hen Ardd (the Old Garden, built in the 1790s).
mountains in the distance on the Nannau Deer Park walk
The “V” is this cast-iron gate stands for the Vaughan family.
an entrance to Yr Hen Ardd (the Old Garden), built in the 1790s
“Cadi knew this was land that held secrets and stories.”
Elin tried to find the stone pillar that marked where the Nannau oak once stood, but it’s now in someone’s private garden. While wandering, a deer jumped out right in front of Elin and her family – a magical sight, she says.
“Despite not being able to find the exact spot of the oak it was an incredible place to walk around anyway,” she says. “You got a real sense of time and story all merging, swirling and stretching together.”
With many traditional, big-name publishers, such a close partnership and collaboration between author and illustrator would have never happened. Often, a writer and illustrator never meet or speak. And so to have this experience, I’m grateful.
As a reminder, Sean and his brother, Simon Clarke, are the second generation to run Christopher Clarke Antiques, in Stow-on-the-Wold, England. Sean and Simon, who helped Christopher Schwarz with his research when writing “Campaign Furniture,” are considered leading historians of campaign furniture.
In this lecture, Sean covers the history of campaign furniture during the golden period for portable furniture, the many different types of British and Irish makers, those who used campaign furniture and its eventual demise.
Sean notes that wealth and rank mattered, and how well your tent was fitted out was a good sign of your social standing.
“There was the opinion that the better prepared you were, the better you would do your job, so camp comforts were a necessity,” he says.
He quotes from a lieutenant’s diary, written in 1813 during the Peninsular War, about the need to equip one’s self with 600 pounds of personal baggage. “The more an officer makes himself comfortable, the better will he do his duty, as well as secure his own health, and the comfort of those belonging to him. It does not follow, that because we attempt the best in every situation, that we cannot face the worst.”
Later in the lecture Sean shares this cartoon, drawn by A.S. Boyd, published in “The Graphic” on October 19, 1901. The soldiers are weighted down by their furniture and personal items, which in the illustrations includes everything from a grandfather clock and a piano to a cradle and lawnmower.
The great joy in this lecture is the many clever examples of ingenuity in the metamorphic furniture shown. Consider the patents alone. Before 1866, Sean says there were 28 patents for chairs. Between 1866 and 1900, 306 patents existed for folding chairs alone.
In this lecture you’ll see a late 18th century mahogany cylinder bureau bookcase that, at first glance, you’d never guess would break down – but it does, considerably. A four poster patent screw bed by Thomas Butler, circa 1800, that is easily set up or taken down without screws, nuts or bolts, and even has a canopy for mosquitos when hot or drapes when cold. There’s a mahogany Naval bureau from 1750-80 with a top that comes off allowing the bottom to become a temporary operating table if needed.
The Victorians broadened the campaign furniture market, building furniture such as the Thornhill Patent Games Table, circa 1910, which easily folds into a small suitcase and could be used at home, in the garden or while on picnics. Sean points out that a plastic version of Thornhill’s folding picnic table and benches can still be found in most camping shops today. And, of course, the Roorkhee Chair is the predecessor to the folding chairs we take to our children’s sporting events, minus the cup holder (and elegance).
Wille Sundqvist standing in front of two tool chests. The tool chest mentioned in the story below is the one to the left.
Many of you have asked how the crowdfunding campaign to save Wille Sundqvist’s tools turned out, which we first wrote about here. With a goal of $4,000, the campaign raised $19,183 in just a couple days. Here’s what happened.
When Jögge Sundqvist’s father Wille Sundqvist died in 2018, Jögge and his two brothers assumed that many of Wille’s tools, sculptures and items from his shop would go to them, particularly to Jögge, who has been instrumental in keeping his father’s legacy alive by teaching traditional carving methods via books, videos and classes around the world. Wille lived his last years in Högland, a small village in the Bjurholm Municipality.
And although Jögge and his brothers have been in agreement throughout the entire process of dealing with their father’s estate, there have been others who have not; as so often happens with families, wills and second marriages, things got complicated.
Wille made many horses in his lifetime, including this one in 1991.
The only items that were given to Jögge and his brothers were three horses their father made when he was between the ages of 12 and 16 years old. This is the one that was given to Jögge.
For the first 10 years of Jögge’s life, he and his family lived in an apartment where his dad had his little workshop in the boys’ bedroom. Jögge and his brothers slept on stacked beds next to their father’s workbench, chopping block, axes and saws, and a beautiful tool chest with a precise interior with parts that flipped in and folded out so that every tool had its special place. It’s a long and private story, but even after offering to spend what translates to nearly $1,800 USD months prior to this most recent auction, Jögge and his brothers were unable to gain ownership of their father’s tool chest.
Eventually Wille’s house was sold and all its contents were put up for auction. If Jögge or either of his brothers wanted anything that was still available, they were going to have to buy it. When a Facebook announcement came up about the auction Jögge instinctively posted something along the lines of hoping that the people who buy his father’s remaining tools and things take care of his father’s heritage and share his stories.
In less than 20 minutes Jögge received a message from Ty Thornock.
Jögge first met Ty several years ago. Jögge was teaching up north and Ty, who lived close by, sent Jögge a message and said he wanted to say hi and have a fika (coffee).
“So we did,” Jögge says. “We had a coffee. And that was right after my father’s death. And then all of a sudden he shows me a spoon he made with some kolrosing in it. And it was a picture of my father, in the spoon blade. And I was totally – it was so nice of him. It was so gentle and so warm and he did it in such a beautiful way. And I was so happy to have that spoon. So this is one of the treasures now in my home. He actually gave it to me. He was such a nice guy.”
The spoon Ty made for Jögge.
Ty and Jögge have kept in touch, and Jögge says that Ty has also generously helped him write about kolrosing techniques for his new forthcoming book about Scandinavian chip carving.
So Ty’s a great guy. And he messages Jögge to ask, “Do you want me to set up a GoFundMe?”
Now Jögge had never heard of GoFundMe.
Ty asked how much Jögge thought he needed to cover the tools. Thinking of only the tools and nothing else, Jögge suggested $4,000 USD and sent Ty a picture of Wille. At 6 p.m., Ty posted the campaign on the GoFundMe website. And Jögge? Well, he was invited to dinner at woodworker Beth Moen’s place.
“We had a wonderful evening, good food and we had such a good time together,” Jögge says. “I mean, we’ve known each other since the early ’80s and we’re deep friends.”
Once home that evening, at about 11 p.m., Jögge finally looked at his phone again. “What?” was all he could say.
The campaign had already raised $15,000 USD.
“That was so amazing,” he says. “I couldn’t believe my eyes. I said, there must be something wrong with this. Because I know the slöjd world. I’ve been teaching in Europe, England, United States, Japan, all over. And I know many people in the slöjd world aren’t very rich people. So I was totally blown away. I called my brothers and said, ‘Wow. This is amazing. The slöjd community did it. Now we can buy tools and items from this auction as we want.’”
A few months after Wille died, Jögge had reached out to the municipality of Bjurholm to talk about creating some sort of installation, a memory room if you will. The problem? It’s one of the smallest municipalities in Sweden, just 2,500 people, and not a lot of money is available for such endeavors. And when all the problems with obtaining the items began, the conversations halted. But now? Jögge entered the auction with a new vision.
“I had this in my mind that maybe we could buy things that could represent my father in the room with some text, some videos, some items and some tools,” he says. “So during the auction I tried to buy stuff that would represent his workshop. So I got the chopping block, I got some axes, I got some sketches, I got his apron, I got his signs from the workshop – I think I have a pretty decent collection now, which is special in showing who he was. So I’m very happy about getting all these things.”
Jögge was able to buy his father’s axe at the auction, but missed the saw.
This is the back cover photo from Wille Sundqvist’s book “Tälja med kniv och yxa,” (“Swedish Carving Techniques”). Wille carved on the train when he was traveling. Jögge was able to purchase one of his father’s leather’s aprons at the auction, thanks to money raised.
Jögge says he also felt a sense of relief knowing these items weren’t purchased using his money or his brothers’ money.
“This is the slöjd community in the world that stood up and said, Fight for it! Go for it!,” he says. “And without that I don’t know if I would have been able to actually have the power to do that because it takes – when you lose a father, which you had taken a responsibility for the cultural heritage that he tried to pass on, it’s so tough. And it was so emotional to go there in the workshop and see all the people in the workshop, looking at the things and wanting to buy them and all that stuff. I couldn’t stand it. So I was just sitting outside waiting for the auction to begin. But then knowing that people around the world were in my back, so to say, was just kind of, I was so happy, you know. When I came home, feeling that, OK, well we solved this, we finally kept a private collection and managed to spread the word about my father, with a little help from my friends.”
And the funding truly was worldwide. Jögge laughs and says only a few Swedes contributed money to the campaign, simply because they couldn’t understand it.
“This way of financing things in Sweden is way beyond,” Jögge says. “It’s not happening at all. We have no tradition of private people giving money to others. Because we have a social democratic society you apply for grants or official funding.”
Some of the Swedes who were following this on social media even sent Jögge private messages. “Oh, something is going on?” Jögge says, reciting a typical message. “‘Do you actually need money?’ They couldn’t realize it was happening! It was so special. For a Swede, seeing this, it was blowing my mind in a way.”
Wille Sundqvist’s tool chest
Jögge and his brothers still don’t have the tool chest, some meaningful sculptures and some items that are personally important to them. There’s still a lot of hurt.
“For us, it’s not the money,” he says. “I have to be clear about that. It’s not the money. Even though I’m not a rich man. For me it’s the memory and the stories about father and what he actually achieved with his work that I want to preserve.”
But because of the grand generosity of the worldwide slöjd and woodworking community, Jögge was able to save many of his father’s personal effects. The remaining money will be used to support the Wille Sundqvist and Bill Coperthwaite Slöjd Fellowship, a grant that is awarded every year to craftspeople around the world who are dedicated to sharing their crafts with other people. Jögge says recipients have included Beth Moen, JoJo Wood, Jarrod Dahl, Peter Follansbee, Robin Wood and Masashi Kutsuwa.
“That feels like a really good thing, that this money can come back to people in that way,” he says.
Jögge is also reserving some money to resume talks with Bjurholm Municipality, with hopes of creating a space to honor his father’s legacy.
“So that’s the plan!” Jögge says. “And I hope it’s going to work out.”
Some years ago, taking a group of children round the Tate Gallery in London, I was hurrying them through one room remarking that there was nothing much there, the more interesting pictures were further on, when one child stopped suddenly. “Oh no, don’t go on. There’s a lovely picture over in that corner. Look!”
Her quick eyes had discovered the one picture of note the room contained. It was quite small, a boy’s head sensitively silhouetted against a dark background, the best thing John Opie, a fashionable portrait painter of the late eighteenth century, ever did.
We crowded around and the little girl planted herself in front of it and gazed her fill. “It’s beautiful,” she declared, stoutly and convincingly. “It’s the best picture we’ve seen to-day.” To her it would remain a lovely memory long after all the others had been forgotten. She may even have gone back to look at it as soon as she was old enough to take herself to picture galleries. It is the kind of thing we all do with our first loves among the arts. Actually some time afterwards a few of the more outstanding works of British painters in the Tate Collection were transfered to the National Gallery and, if I remember righty, this picture was among them.
In the end, everything comes round to the person. If we are to be satisfied, we ourselves have to be the doers, the makers of things, even of discoveries, although we may have the wisdom of the centuries to guide us. Every man may not be guided into the same groove, not see things with the same eyes, and it is well that it should be so, for hence comes the interest and variety of everything to which men set their hands.
— Charles Hayward,The Woodworker magazine, 1962, excerpted from Honest Labour