Republishing out-of-print books is one of the most technically challenging things we do at Lost Art Press. In a perfect world, it should be easy: Take the old files, send them to the new printer and start the presses.
In my entire career in publishing, however, that hasn’t happened once.
With every older book that we have republished, the original publisher has lost or destroyed the original files. While I’m sure this happens sometimes out of malice or laziness, most of the time it occurs because of a change in technology or ownership.
Quick example: When F+W Media acquired American Woodworker magazine, it inherited a tractor-trailer load of original files – photos, manuscripts, drawings, contracts etc. I saw these files when I stopped by the office about four years ago. What did F+W do with them? They are now in the landfill.
So when we set out to bring back Scott Landis’s two classic woodworking texts, “The Workbench Book” and “The Workshop Book,” I knew we would be in for a technical slog. There was, however, some good news. Landis had many original photos, which allowed us to create new dust jackets with crisp, high-resolution photos.
Also, the last publisher had a press-resolution pdf of “The Workbench Book.” That book was published in the early days of desktop publishing. So the book existed on film – one layer of film for each color. That film was digitized and reassembled into a pdf. Getting it on a modern press with modern aluminum color plates, however, was no small feat.
For “The Workshop Book,” on the other hand, there was nothing. No digital or physical files whatsoever. The only good news here was that Landis had a pristine first edition of the book that we could attempt to use to make a new edition.
I won’t dive too much into the technical details, but you can’t simply scan a printed color book with photos and republish it. Well, you can, but it will look like garbage.
Luckily, I’ve been working with a company that has developed a proprietary scanning process that can take apart printed color photos (called halftones) and separate them into digital color plates – one for each color, cyan, magenta, yellow and black. These digital plates can be processed and reassembled into something that looks damn good on press.
We hadn’t tried this process, however. So it was a gamble with tens of thousands of dollars.
Thankfully, the printed result looks great. Better than I could have ever hoped, really.
The interior of “The Workshop Book,” which looks indistinguishable from a book produced with traditional files.
Everyone on this project, from Landis down to the press operators, did everything they did to get these books right. Landis and his son even created some nice new diestamps for the cloth below the dust jackets. When these dust jackets wear out, the books will still look like a cohesive set.
And if these books ever go out of print again, it’s my hope that we have made it easier for some future publisher. All our contracts guarantee the author will receive all the publishing files we’ve created, which are stored digitally at multiple locations.
We hope you’ll consider adding “The Workbench Book” and “The Workshop Book” to your woodworking library. We definitely think they were worth the effort and expense to republish and offer information that is useful to this generation and future ones.
The last few weeks have been filled with finishing experiments for “The Stick Chair Book” that answer some minor questions I had about paint, soap and linseed oil/beeswax finishes.
One question I can’t answer: Does anyone know what’s in Odie’s Oil at $130 for a quart? (Wrong answers only.)
One of the finishing projects I’ve been working on is to show some of the possible color combinations of the “Far East Wales” finish. (Why do I call it by this name? The answer is here.) I also wanted to see if the finish worked OK with shellac instead of lacquer. Answer: Yes, it works great. And I wanted to see if I could get away with applying only one coat of base color instead of two. Answer: Yes, again!
So here’s the updated procedure I used for the following finish samples.
Apply a base coat of water-based film-forming paint, such as acrylic or latex.
Apply two coats of shellac or lacquer by brushing, wiping or spraying.
As soon as the finish is dry, apply a second coat of a water-based film-forming paint.
When the paint flashes from wet to dry, you can begin the blistering process. You will get more dramatic results the sooner you start blistering.
Use a heat gun on its highest setting (or a propane torch) to heat the paint. Heat a small area (about four square inches) then use a paint scraper to remove the blisters. Work the entire project this way.
Use a woven 3M gray pad or steel wool to smooth all surfaces and remove any loose paint.
Apply a black wax (I use Liberon black bison wax). When it flashes, buff it off with a coarse cotton cloth, such as a huck towel.
I tried a bunch of different color combinations using the paints we had in our finishing cabinet. I was surprised by how much I liked the bright colors, especially the yellows, with this finish. Here are a few sample boards. All paint colors are from the General Finishes Milk Paint (not a milk paint but an acrylic) line of paints.
— Christopher Schwarz
Note: I haven’t tried this process with any casein-based paints, so I don’t know if they will work as the base coat (my guess on this is yes, it will work) or the topcoat of color (my guess is no, it will not work). So feel free to experiment with this yourself.
Two 40-year-old settin’ chairs spruced up with white paint.
I first reached out to an Appalachian chairmaker in about November 2019. It was before this project came about, before the search started in earnest to find chairmakers in the region. Our initial phone conversation discussed the details about an upcoming two-day visit. I struggled to keep up; the chairmaker’s fast talk and dialect were tough to follow over the phone, especially because he did not get strong service in the mountains and our call dropped a few times. My hope for the visit was to observe, listen, learn and, if at all possible, lend a hand. He outlined a schedule and made a few suggestions for our time.
I asked about local lodging, a place to stay after we worked together. He lives in Eastern Kentucky, which is rural, mountainous and remote. He offered me his guest bedroom, a trusting and generous gesture. The next part of the conversation was memorable, despite the poor connection. I reluctantly accepted his offer to stay, saying I’d be happy to find a local hotel so as not to impose.
He replied, “If things go poorly, I’ll just feed you to the pigs….” *
No follow-up. No laughter. I hoped it was due to the poor connection. My wife made sure I left the chairmaker’s address before leaving for the visit, something to assist the authorities, just in case things did not go well.
*I scanned for barns or signs of livestock upon arriving at his property. None. All clear.
Kentuckian Terry Ratliff, resting after opening a walnut log.
Chris Schwarz asked me to share a little about my upcoming book, “Backwoods Chairs.” The original details of how the idea came together are a little fuzzy, though it had to do with our mutual appreciation for the Appalachian chairmaking traditions. The chairs were the spark that ignited this project.
In “Backwoods Chairs,” I search for post-and-rung chairmakers still working within central Appalachian traditions due to their historic ties to the region (the chairs also go by the name ladderback, hickory-bottom, common and slat-back). But that search proved challenging. Though there’s a rich tradition, the current field of chairmakers is small and dwindling. The makers have little Internet presence, and there is no central information source, such as a person who knows the makers and their locations. I’ve chased dozens of leads and recall laughter on the other end of the phone line as I ask about traditional chairmakers. “Good luck,” they giggle.
Are there makers still out there? Even the chairmakers ask me that question upon hearing about this book project.
There is an abundance of green woodworking in “Backwoods Chairs,” though it’s not all that. Some makers turn their parts from planks, others split and shave. You will find plenty of handwork and hickory bark, a little history and humor within the pages. There are stories about the makers, pictures of their shops and tools, and emphasis on their techniques and their chairs, along with discussion of their successes and hardships. And plenty of chairmaking romance with a dash of capitalism’s ruthlessness. The book’s final section is a step-by-step build of a couple chairs, created for someone with a home shop and lack of backyard access to a deciduous forest full of oaks and maples.
Appalashop, Chester Cornett’s final chair, 1978
There is another thing that draws me to this project beyond my love of the chairs. It is an attitude that is incredibly tough to capture: that these chairs are somehow (and mistakenly) the bottom rung of creative woodworking. That they are almost worth looking beyond, to find something more impressive. The Ronald L. Hurst article “Southern Furniture Studies: Where We’ve Been, Where We’re Going,” for the MESDA Journal, catches some of that vibe (emphasis mine):
Southern furniture is one of the most dynamic subjects in American decorative arts research today. Institutions and private scholars alike are actively investigating a wide array of the region’s cabinetmaking traditions, and their compelling discoveries are regularly revealed in new publications and exhibitions. Yet interest in the topic is comparatively recent. Antiquarians began collecting furniture from the North as early as the 1820s, but there was almost no awareness of its southern counterparts before the 1930s. Even then, study of the material would remain sporadic for another thirty years. Although a small core of early-twentieth-century southern dealers and collectors was aware of the South’s cabinetmaking heritage, the rest of the American decorative arts community was convinced that southern furniture makers fashioned nothing more complex than ladder-back chairs and utility tables.
The following paragraph, from the same article, continues on this theme of regional furniture ignorance:
Ironically, one of the principal catalysts for a widespread change in attitudes about southern furniture came at the 1949 Colonial Williamsburg Antiques Forum. Joseph Downs, curator of the MMA’s American Wing, addressed that first Forum audience in a lecture titled “Regional Characteristics of American Furniture.” During the question-and-answer session that followed, a participant asked Downs why his presentation on American regional style had included only goods made in the North. Downs reportedly replied that “little of artistic merit was made south of Baltimore.” Either Juliette Brewer or Eleanor Offutt, both knowledgeable Kentucky collectors and preservationists, purportedly offered a follow-up question. “Mr. Downs,” one of them asked, “do you speak out of ignorance or out of prejudice?” Downs graciously pled ignorance, but his then widely accepted view on the subject, stated in that place to that audience, generated outrage and launched a movement that remains alive today.
The MESDA article is in reference to collecting and recognizing the value in Southern furniture. It’s my understanding that high-style Southern furniture is now receiving its due. So some things are changing.
Sherman Wooten Rocker
There are significant differences between high-style work and the backwoods chairs. In one, creativity is born out of abundance. The conditions foster beautiful work, yet I am fascinated by creativity out of necessity. Making not in partnership with affluence, but within communities of modest means. Within central Appalachia, the tradition of making out of necessity points directly toward slat-back chairs and their makers. Or at least it did. I’m interested in hearing from the makers about today’s conditions and if they are optimistic about traditional chairmaking continuing forward with future generations.
West Virginian Tom Lynch, gang-cutting slats at the band saw.
This project is possible only because the makers generously opened their workshops and shared their stories. They graciously adjusted along with me throughout the uncertainty of the last year. I planned the first visits for this project for spring of 2020 (you remember last spring). Travel was quickly postponed until conditions improved. A couple visits happened last fall, on good weather days when we could distance and be outdoors, with makers in Eastern Kentucky, North Carolina and West Virginia. Upcoming travel includes trips into Tennessee, North Carolina (again) and Virginia. At that point I should have plenty of material for the book.
I have high hopes for “Backwoods Chairs.” I want to do right by the chairmakers, write an engaging and informative book for the woodworking community, and create something worthy of Lost Art Press. Since starting I have added one more aspiration to my list: I intend to stay clear of any hungry pigs.
Good coffee is the official beverage at the Lost Art Press workshop. And for years, we’ve wanted to offer a high-quality U.S.-made coffee mug that wasn’t the typical give-away and throw-away thing that corporations hand out.
After lots of searching, we finally found a stoneware mug that is handmade in Minnesota by a small company. These 12-ounce mugs are dishwasher- and microwave-safe. Each mug has a two-toned glaze – blue and white – and is stamped on the underside with the potter’s maker’s mark.
The mugs are approximately 4-1/4” tall. They are 3-3/8” diameter at the base and 3” diameter at the rim. As these mugs are handmade, these dimensions are approximate, but close. The price is $25, which is a good value for work of this quality. You can order one in our store via this link. The mugs are in stock and ship immediately.
Each mug is signed by the artisan who made it.
The mugs are emblazoned with a detail from the Lost Art Press logo that features our dividers and the motto: “Traditional Hand-Tool Skills.”
Even if you don’t drink coffee, we think you’ll find a use for this mug – tea, hot chocolate, vodka (we don’t judge) or pencils.
— Christopher Schwarz
P.S. Hate coffee? We’re working on an LAP beer stein for the holidays.
We will open the doors of Lost Art Press’s storefront to the public for the first time since 2019 on Aug. 7, 2021 (which also happens to be Megan Fitzpatrick’s birthday).
We will give away free Lost Art Press yardsticks to the first 200 visitors. We also will sell blemished books and tools for 50 percent off retail (cash sales only on blems). And, of course, we will have our complete line of books and tools for sale as well (cash, check or credit).
We ask that all visitors be vaccinated for the COVID-19 virus, and follow CDC guidelines on masking. No exceptions. This is no different than asking you to wear pants. (Don’t bother flaming us in the comments because we will delete them.)
In the next week or so, Megan will have an announcement about 2021 classes at the storefront.
We have been insanely busy since 2019. Lost Art Press has grown to the point where I cannot travel or teach without neglecting the company. That’s a good thing.
We have a contracting crew on site right now that is sprucing up the old bathroom area. The last business in the building before I bought it was a bar. As a result, the toilets were a little sketchy.
We are converting the men’s room (farewell urinal) to a kitchenette. This will give visitors a nice place to get coffee, grab a drink or store their lunches. The women’s room is being upgraded with nice tile, cabinets, fixtures and radiant heat. We’re also doing some work in the library.
All this should be done by August, and we hope you can join us.
— Christopher Schwarz
P.S. What does Megan want for her birthday? She says she has enough whiskey and Shakespeare doo-dads. What she really needs is a live-in contractor who can help her finish her home remodel.
