Scott Stahl, aka The Pragmatic Woodworker, has posted a review of “Grandpa’s Workshop” on his blog.
As Scott is a father with a 10-year-old daughter, I was particularly interested and pleased to see how his young one reacted to the story.
I know that this book isn’t for every family. It possesses none of the Disney-era varnish that is comforting, bland and easily digested. And that is exactly why I love “Grandpa’s Workshop.”
Check out Scott’s review here.
— Christopher Schwarz
Here’s a quick update on things that are not happening in the shop at Lost Art Press.
I know this is a weird topic for a blog entry. But I was asked these five questions dozens of times during Woodworking in America and recently via e-mail.
We Are Not Opening a School
While we are looking for a large building for our inventory that will have a shop, a loading dock, living quarters and space for experimentation, we have no plans to open a school. I enjoy teaching, writing and building furniture. But running a school is a huge administrative task.
When we get our building, I hope we’ll have the space to allow other woodworkers to come there and collaborate with us on book projects. But it won’t be a school.
We Aren’t Hiring Employees
So who the heck is Ty Black, my so-called “shop assistant?” I never want to manage people. I’m done with that. But I am happy to work with others. Ty is a local software engineer and woodworker who works with me three days a week. He helps me with my projects. I help him with his. Some days I teach him something about handwork. Other days he teaches me something about improving my shop processes. He is definitely not an employee. I don’t pay him. I don’t tell him what to do. From henceforth I shall call him “helper monkey.”
We Aren’t Starting a Hand-tool Magazine
I’m done with running magazines and newspapers. They are crazy businesses that I have lived and breathed since 1990. I want to make things that in 100 years will still be used daily.
We Aren’t Becoming a Custom Furniture Business
I’m building a lot of furniture and selling it, but it is all in service to the writing and the publishing. After building 10 Roorkhee chairs for customers, I know a ton more about this unusual form. And I have campaign chests in mahogany and teak that I’ll be selling as the campaign furniture book progresses. And a buttload of boarded chests for “The Furniture of Necessity.”
But I’m not in the business of making (especially) workbenches and tool chests. I’d probably starve.
We Aren’t Exploring Other Crafts
Yup, blacksmithing, weaving and other traditional crafts are interesting. But we won’t be publishing books on them because we aren’t tuned in to them. We know traditional woodworking. We eat, sleep and breathe it. We know what needs to be published for other woodworkers. I couldn’t say what a blacksmith needs.
— Christopher Schwarz
Most of this trip to visit the H.O. Studley chest has been about documenting every tool in the chest. Not just the tools, but counting every single thing in every single drawer.
As we took the tools out and Don Williams was documenting the panel arrangement, he found that one of the ebony supports was damaged. “Damaged” ain’t the right word. In Arkansas, we would have said “it done blowed up.”
A quick review of our photo record from the last three years confirmed that this damage had occurred before our first encounter with the chest (cue the “whew,” and we all changed our underwear). With the permission of the owner of the chest, Don repaired the damage.
Some details for Studley nerds. The ebony support had been repaired twice before with PVA glue. PVA doesn’t adhere to ebony well because of its density, so it’s no surprise that the glue failed. Twice.
Don carefully removed the PVA by scraping and picking at it.
To re-glue the part, he prepared a solution of nine parts of liquid hide glue and one part glycerine from the drugstore. It did two things: increased the glue’s stickiness and reduced its tendency to fracture.
After applying the glue, he clamped the part together using teflon tape, wrapping and tying it around the part. Then he allowed it to dry overnight.
Yesterday, we also shot this short video on how Narayan Nayar goes about photographing every object in the chest. Good stuff.
— Christopher Schwarz
The point of this blog entry is that you can sharpen a tool in a dozen different ways – your way, my way or the way of a dead guy. In short: Don’t be a dullard.
For the last few days I have immersed myself in the cutting edges made (presumably) by H.O. Studley, a Massachusetts piano maker who created a legendary wall-hanging tool chest. His tool chest is a testament to his skill. It is flawless in almost every way, from the design to the tools’ composition to the craftsmanship of the chest itself.
So what sort of sharpener was he?
To take a stab at this question, I spent most of today looking closely at every cutting edge in the chest. From what we know about this chest, the tools have been mostly on mothballs since Studley left the trade in the early part of the 20th century. So there is a chance that the edges on the tools are actually his edges.
I looked at every edge in the chest under high magnification and compared them all to one another. I suspect Studley was the last sharpener of many of the tools based on the consistency of many of the edges, from the augers to the planes to the chisels to the marking gauges. The pattern of scratches left on the tools was quite consistent. So if I were H.O. Studley, here is what I would tell you about my sharpening regimen.
1. I like a convex bevel. Nearly all of the edges I observed had a slightly convex bevel. A couple tools had evidence of a hollow grind in the middle that was in the process of being removed by sharpening the bevel (making it convex).
2. I like cambered edges on my planes. Nearly every edge of the plane blades (blocks, smoothers, jacks and try) had a cambered cutting edge. Many of the edges were significantly relieved at the corners.
3. I sharpen the entire bevel. Only one tool had any evidence of a micro-bevel.
4. I lap the backs of my irons and chisels. All of the tools in the chest have lapped backs. The lapping is not to a mirror sheen, but there is evidence of significant and continuous work on the backs.
5. I lift my plane irons slightly when I polish the backs. Over and over I saw evidence that the very tip of the back was polished to a higher degree than the metal behind the tip. And (using a machinist straightedge) I could see that the tip of the back was ever-so-slightly dubbed from this polishing. The polishing on the backs was heavier on the bevel-up planes than on the bevel-down planes.
You can take the above information and twist it however you like. Studley was a hand-sharpener. He sharpened the entire bevel. He did something similar to the ruler trick – though he probably didn’t use a ruler. He knew that he needed two intersecting surfaces to create a sharp and durable edge.
Or maybe it was someone in the Studley family who knew this and sharpened all the edges in the chest. Maybe it was the family’s lawyer who acquired the chest. Maybe it was some compulsive sharpener at the Smithsonian who ran wild through the chest while it was in the care of the institution.
The truth is, we don’t know. But we can guess. And my guess is that most of these edges were from the hand of H.O. Studley. And with the help of some incredible photography technology we’re using, you’ll be able to see this for yourself when we publish the book on H.O. Studley in the next two years.
— Christopher Schwarz
Note: All the photos with this blog entry were taken by Narayan Nayar.
I’ve made lots of joint stools over the years. Right now, I have a few underway, (see above) and a joined “form” to go with them. A form is just a stretched-out joint stool, such as this one I shot in Derbyshire a few years back.
Surviving examples from early New England are not common, I can think of maybe a dozen or so. But in England, these things abound in all shapes and sizes. I use examples from both places for inspiration when I’m making stools.
In my research I have collected names for stools from probate inventories, and sometimes you can see what the people were looking at as they made the list. Other times I’m still scratching my head. The quotes that follow are from inventories in New England and old England.
“(T)wo little joyne stooles” – I have two little kids, so that was easy enough.
I haven’t made any “busted stools (worth) 1s6d” yet, but this example tested my mettle.
“(T)urkey worke stooles” are upholstered stools covered in wool that looks like a Turkish carpet. Usually it’s turkey-work chairs you see, such as this one.
Now, if I can just find someone who can make turkey-work covers, then I’d make an upholstered stool. Another name for an upholstered stool is “wrought stoole,” and Jennie Alexander made one we put in the book “Make a Joint Stool from a Tree.” That example was upholstered by our colleague, furniture historian Bob Trent.
I hope to not need “a close stoole 8s,” but sometimes it’s not necessarily a stool of ease, but just a stool with an enclosed box in it. I have made one of those by fitting a bottom into the aprons. You can nail the bottom to the lower edges of the aprons, or fit it into grooves in the apron’s inside faces. Then just hinge the seat instead of pegging it down.
One last use for a joined stool shows up in a non-period term that I hear a lot from visitors from the United Kingdom, usually old-timers. “Coffin” stool, like in William Hogarth’s series of engravings in “The Harlot’s Progress.”
And the phrase “6 joined stools of the worser sort….” Well, it doesn’t say “worst” sort, so I guess some I have made are “worser” than others. So I keep trying to get them better.
— Peter Follansbee, one of the authors of “Make a Joint Stool from a Tree.”