Quick note: We have replenished our inventory of Robert Wearing’s “The Solution at Hand” and Christian Becksvoort’s “With the Grain.” Both are now available in our online store and will soon be available again through our retailers.
“The Solution at Hand” hand was our sleeper hit of 2019. We love Wearing’s writing, but we weren’t sure how people would react to a book comprised entirely of his jigs for handwork (you sold the sucker out in record time). And “With the Grain” is now in its fifth printing with us. That book has been a huge hit with people who are interested in getting into woodworking and want to learn about trees and how they work.
In other news: Our fingers are crossed that “The Anarchist’s Design Book” will ship from the printer this week. There’s still time to get a free pdf of the book if you order it before this new edition ships out.
After the book ships, it will cost $12.25 more to purchase both the hardbound book and the pdf. Long-time customers know that this is the only discount we offer on our books.
Today I was working on the layout for “Honest Labour” and had to revisit the 1936 volume of The Woodworker magazines. I stumbled on this delightful and ingenious way to explain and demonstrate how wood twists as it dries. Read the original text below and check out the illustration.
— Christopher Schwarz
Every woodworker knows that a certain shrinkage in wood is inevitable, and most know (to their cost) that a board will sometimes twist. Probably the majority connect the two phenomena, and say that a board twists because it shrinks. But this is only a half truth. It is true that the twisting would not take place if the wood did not shrink, but it is quite possible for a board to shrink without twisting. In fact, every well-seasoned board does so. Shrinkage has to be accepted as inevitable, and the fact that a board has remained flat goes to prove that the shrinkage can take place without twisting.
To revert to our subject, however, assuming that a board has twisted, that is become hollow, who can explain why this has taken place? An excellent practical demonstration of what happens is shown in the accompanying photographs. First a piece of paper about 6″ wide and 2′ long is folded up across its width in a series of folds, rather like a fan. The whole thing is then opened out at one side so that a circle is formed (like a double fan) as in Fig. 1, and the joining edges are glued together.
Across the face of this a series of lines is drawn with a brush and black ink. The lines at A are meant to represent the cuts that would be made in a log to produce plain (flatsawn) oak. That at B is a solid square of timber, whilst the C boards represent figured boards (quartersawn) cut radially from the centre.
Now shrinkage takes place around the annual rings, and it is obvious that if a log were never converted it would have to split, because the shrinkage would mean that the length of its circumference was becoming less. In the demonstration it is assumed that the splits have taken place at the two sides, and consequently two cuts are made at these two points. The spring of the folded paper will cause the whole to assume the shape shown in Fig. 2, and this is precisely the shape a split log would assume.
The originally straight lines of the conversion of the plain (flatsawn) boards A are now all curved, the square at B has shrunk badly at one side, whereas the figured (quartersawn) boards, C, remain straight. Thus we can see why plain oak is so much more liable to twist than figured oak, and why the boards always twist with their edges away from the heart. Thus in a twisted board it is always safe to say that the rounded side is the heart side. Furthermore, by an examination of the end grain is is always possible to say which is the heart side, and which way it is liable to twist if at all.
After more than four years of work, we are completing work on our latest book called “Good Work: The Chairmaking Life of John Brown” by Christopher Williams. It will be available for pre-publication ordering next week.
The book’s title of “Good Work” was an expression John Brown used to describe a noble act or thing. He once mused he wanted to create a “Good Work” seal that could be applied to truly beautiful and handmade goods – like the “Good Housekeeping” seal of approval.
“Good Work” is the kind of woodworking book I live for. It’s not about offering you plans, jigs or techniques per se. Its aim instead is to challenge the way you look at woodworking through the lens of one of its most important 20th century figures. And though this appears to be a book on chairmaking, it’s much more. Anyone who is interested in handwork, vernacular furniture, workshop philosophy or iconoclastic characters will enjoy “Good Work.”
Photo by John Harries
Author Chris Williams spent about a decade with John Brown in Wales, building Welsh chairs and pushing this vernacular form further and further. This book recounts their work together, from the first day that Chris nervously called John Brown until the day his mentor died in 2008.
Alongside that fascinating story of loyalty, hard work and eventual grief, “Good Work” offers essays from the people directly involved in John Brown’s life as a chairmaker. Nick Gibbs, his editor from Good Woodworking magazine; Anne Sears, John Brown’s second wife; David Sears, his nephew; and Matty Sears, one of his sons who is now a toolmaker, all offer their views of John Brown and his work.
“Good Work” also allows John Brown (sometimes called JB) to speak for himself. We purchased the rights to reprint 20 of the man’s best columns from Good Woodworking, the ones that inspired devotion, provoked anger or caused people to change their lives.
Chris then proceeds to show you how he and JB built chairs during the later years together. These methods are different than what John Brown showed in his book “Welsh Stick Chairs.” And Chris goes into detail that hasn’t been published before. Chris covers the particular tools that JB preferred and gives you more than enough information to build a beautiful Welsh stick chair. But, just to be clear, there are no dimensioned plans included in this book.
To honor his mentor’s wishes, Chris instead shows you how to build a chair the way John Brown showed him to build a chair. Yes, there are dimensions. Techniques are clearly and cleverly explained. But there are some things left for you to work out – things that will make your chair your own – not just a copy.
The 208-page full-color book is also filled with historical photographs (many never published before) and beautiful linocut illustrations by Molly Brown, one of JB’s daughters. The book is printed on heavy coated paper with a matte finish to make it easy to read. The book’s pages are sewn, glued and taped – then covered in heavy boards and cotton cloth – to create a book that will last for generations. And the whole package is wrapped in a durable tear-resistant laminated dust jacket, which features linocut illustrations by Molly Brown. The entire book is produced and printed in the United States.
Next week we will open pre-publication ordering. Those who place an order before the book is printed will receive a free pdf download of the book at checkout.
We expect the book to retail for about $47 – we are still doing some math because this was an expensive, years-long projects with lots of participants. It should be available in late March.
On a personal note, this book checks off one of the “to do” items on my long list of life goals. I, Chris and everyone involved in the book have poured our hearts into the effort. And I think it will show.
— Christopher Schwarz
P.S. As always, we don’t know which of our retailers will carry “Good Work.” That is their decision. We hope that all of them will.
We’ve restocked on our Cincinnati-made chore coats. As of this moment, we have plenty of every size except Large. We’re working with our stitcher, Sew Valley, to restock the Large size and build up inventory on all of our sizes.
This is the best time of year for the chore coat. I just emptied the pockets of sawdust from mine and went to dinner with Lucy at Ripple down the street from us.
Other news: Both the expanded edition of “The Anarchist’s Design Book” and “The Solution at Hand” are projected to ship the week of Jan. 21. Apologies for all the out-of-stock books. Last year was our biggest year ever by every measure. We’re having to increase our press runs in many cases and keep a closer watch on inventory.
Editor’s note: When we published David Savage’s “The Intelligent Hand” we were under a cancer-imposed deadline to finish the book, and so some aspects of the production got shorter shrift than I like. One part was this section on the Cable Street Mural, which David had begun painting in the 1970s. We tried like hell to get some good photos of the mural for the book, but could locate only one small photo before press time.
This fall I taught a couple classes in the East End of London, and one of the students mentioned that the mural was a quick train ride away. So we went during a meal break and I took these photos. Below is David’s text about the mural. Please note that this story is a little out of context outside its book. It is not about politics. It is about failure. Please don’t drag our blog into the political muck in the comments. We’re better than that.
— Christopher Schwarz
When I tell this story to students they always say the catastrophes and failures have been the best bits. Each time I tell the story I get the courage to look a little closer at what went wrong. It helps to see each failure not as a falling down, but as a stage of personal development. It’s how you get back up that matters. Creatives are good at failure; we do it all the time, and we know there is no good work without it. But it helps in the telling if the blood and gore gets drippy.
The Battle of Cable Street happened in 1936 when Oswald Moseley attempted to lead a band of the British Union of Fascists through the largely Jewish East End of London. They were prevented by a large crowd from going along a main route, so they were diverted down a smaller parallel road, Cable Street. The group was so deeply provocative that this road, too, was blocked and the march was prevented from proceeding. Hurrah!
This area near the London docks has always been where immigrants would first settle. It had been the home of Huguenots and, in turn, Jewish people fleeing pogroms in Europe. As immigrants settled, gained stability and a little prosperity, they would all move to other areas of London. (In the 1970s and 1980s, the new Bangladeshi immigrant population was threatened with fire bombs and daily racial intimidation from a small but vocal far-right political group in the same way that the British Union of Fascists had done to Jewish East Enders in 1936.)
Remembering the Battle of Cable Street seemed an important thing to do. Especially as the side wall of the Stepney town hall on Cable Street had a public garden in front of it and seemed to have PAINT ME written all over it.
I began the selling process all over again. I made drawings and large watercolour designs, showing as much as I could what the wall would look like. The proposal had considerable local support, but most people, quite reasonably, couldn’t see the sense of spending any money on art, especially this art. Going against a majority opinion for what seemed to be right was becoming a silly habit of mine.
The local authority was the Tower Hamlets Council, and as owners of the building, they were responsible for its repair (rendering the wall paintable). Getting this done took years. In my proposal, I asked for two assistants to speed up the job. This never happened. I was on my own. The scaffolding was nearly 80′ high. My plan was to work from the top of the wall down, which may have been foolish. At some stages I would put a projector on top of a nearby tower scaffold and project drawings onto the wall. Working on the top of it meant my work was obscured from view by the scaffold board I trod upon. To see the area I had worked on from the ground meant removing the boards and climbing down, spying the errors, putting the boards back and making the change. And on and on. I was running up and down those ladders all day long. It was exhausting and dangerous work; twice I fell a short distance.
But the wall was going well; I had spent two winters and a summer on it, and most of the top part was near finished. The image was beginning to emerge. I didn’t realise it, but this was the dangerous time. This is when the wall was comprehensively vandalised.
That and the exhaustion got me. My body told me that if I went on that wall I would probably fall again, and this time I might die. It was a move I am not proud of, but I pulled out. I quit. I knew the mural would be finished, as the political will (and the money) was now there to do it.
A team of three, including my old mate Des Rochefort, along with Ray Walker and Paul Butler, were commissioned to finish the job. Well done fellas. Hurrah! This mural, unlike the “Royal Oak Mural,” has been protected from vandalism and become a well-loved part of the area.The repair and restoration has been periodically and lovingly done by Paul. Well done, Paul.