If you are looking for a travisher, here is another fantastic option: Allan Williams, a chairmaker and toolmaker who makes three kinds of travishers.
Recently I ordered two travishers from Allan, a standard one with a 4-1/2″-radius blade and a tighter-radius tool (3″) for fixing student mistakes and doing some work at the back edge of my seats.
Allan’s are based on the travishers made popular by Claire Minihan and Peter Galbert. Claire and Peter’s tool is the travisher I have used for more than a decade, and I have ridden it to Australia and back. I’m also fond of the travishers made (also on the Minihan/Galbert pattern) by Elia Bizzari and crew. All these travishers usually require quite a wait to get (though they are worth it.)
Now you have a third great option with Allan’s travishers. They are made to a very high standard. They arrive insanely sharp. And they work as well as any travisher I’ve ever used.
If you make regular-head stick chairs, the 4-1/2″-radius tool is all you need. If you want to explore some tight or shallow curves, Allan offers tools for that.
My only slight complaint is that the blades in Allan’s travishers are secured with Allen-head screws (makes sense when you think of it). I prefer slotted screws because I always have a #8 screwdriver on the bench. I will swap those screws out during my next trip to the hardware store. No big deal.
Otherwise, I recommend Allan’s tools with no reservation. They are fantastic tools that will last the rest of your chairmaking life.
— Christopher Schwarz
P.S. I also recommend the travishers from James Mursell at Windsor Workshops, but those require a separate blog entry to explain fully….
At top: an aluminum prototype. Middle: a mild steel prototype (no surface finishing). Below: My original.
Small cross-peen hammers are incredibly useful in furniture making. I’ve had one in my chest for almost 20 years.
“Wait,” you might be thinking. “Chris didn’t list this hammer in his recent inventory of his chest.”
You are correct. That’s because we’ve been reverse-engineering my favorite Warrington to make our own version. It’s now in pieces. Its handle is off to the handle-maker. And the head, which we carefully measured, is now sitting lonesome on my desk.
Americans don’t have much of a history with this form of hammer. It’s a Brit thing, just like the lump hammer we make. I don’t know exactly why that is the case. Warrington’s are quite useful.
This small hammer (with about a 4-ounce head) is ideal for setting and sinking small nails. The cross-peen (sometimes called the cross-pane) starts the nail. You hold the nail between your thumb and forefinger and strike it with the pane. (The pane misses your fingers and hits the nails.) Then you turn the hammer around and finish the job with the hammer’s round face.
The cross-peen is also ideal when setting moulding planes. I use it to knock the plane’s iron against the blind side of the escapement, ensuring the iron is in line with the profile of the plane’s sole.
This photo shows the top and bottom of the prototypes. The logo will be on the underside of the cross-peen.
And a Warrington is an excellent plane-setting hammer. Its weight and size are perfect for making lateral adjustments to block planes or bench planes. (Because I have a Warrington, I’ve never really wanted a dedicated plane-adjusting hammer. There’s no need.)
The Crucible Warrington will be milled out of one block of hardened steel and features a lot of the beautiful chamfering and tapering you don’t see on modern hammers of any type. The handle will be hickory and set into the head with a wooden wedge.
Like all our tools, the hammer will be made and assembled entirely in the United States.
It is going to be a little expensive, like our lump hammer. The hammer head is a tricky bit of machining. Though it requires less steel than our lump hammer, it has to spend a lot more time in the mill. And the handle is a 100-percent custom job (our lump hammer is a stock pattern that we modify).
I think it will be worth it. I absolutely adore these little hammers, and this one is based on one of the most beautiful ones I’ve ever encountered. It was given to me by planemaker Wayne Anderson a couple decades ago and I’ve kept it close ever since.
A newly restored 1949 Smith-Corona Silent from Unplug Typewriter Co.
The first writing class I took at Northwestern’s journalism school – “B-01 Basic Writing” – was intended to weed out about one-third of the students. You had to make a “B” in the course or you were thrown out.
The class was intentionally boot camp-ish. And there were a variety of infractions that would result in an “F” on your day’s work, such as misspelling a proper noun. (I will never misspell “Nicaragua” again.)
Perhaps the most dastardly detail of the class was that you were required to type everything on manual typewriters in the writing lab. It was Spring 1987 when I took that class. And electric (even Selectric) typewriters were common, and dedicated word processors were in the writing labs for the advanced students.
Every screw, lever and corner of the machine has been chemically cleaned and reassembled.
A lot of my fellow students were freaked about the manuals. Plus how to use correcting fluid. And moans such as, “Where is the ‘1’ key? My machine is missing that key!”
Working on a manual was the only advantage I had in the class. For the first 20 years of my life, everything I wrote was on my manual typewriter, which had been handed down to me by my mother. I knew the machine inside and out. I had to repair the thing, oil the thing. Clean it to keep it working, especially the platen. And change the ribbon, of course.
I didn’t like electric typewriters. They made a hum like a bug zapper, and every time I brushed a key accidentally I’d jump in my seat. I needed a typewriter that required effort to use. And was quiet.
I have never done well in institutions. But this grade meant everything to me.
I barely passed Basic Writing with a B-, the absolute lowest grade that allowed me to continue in school. And I often attribute my love of manuals to be the reason I didn’t get a C or worse.
This week I took delivery of an amazing piece of work that has brought a lot of emotions to the fore. It’s a completely restored 1949 Smith-Corona Silent. A beautiful and compact piece of insane engineering.
The machine was completely rebuilt by Meagan Syata of the Unplug Typewriter Co. I have been following her work on Instagram for a while. And at some point our paths crossed. Her husband is a woodworker, and they live in Hope, Arkansas, my home state. We worked out a trade (I think I got the best part of the deal) – one typewriter in exchange for a huge pile of books.
It’s just… perfect.
The typewriter showed up yesterday, and I cannot take my eyes or hands off of it. It looks and works like it is new from the factory. And after reading about and watching everything that Meagan does to these machines, I am not surprised.
This typewriter is going to get used. I hate writing notes and short letters by hand. My handwriting is terrible. I’m a much better typist.
I doubt I’ll ever write a book using it. But who knows? I’ve done stupider things (such as our letterpress version of “Roman Workbenches.”)
To be honest, I don’t have romantic notions about using a manual typewriter. I don’t do detective cosplay, and I’m not a “His Girl Friday” reenactor. Like my handplanes and saws, this is a tool. And knowing how to use all the tools is part of my DNA.
As a writer with a long history with these machines, it’s nice to have one of these back in my possession.
If you have any interest at all in these old machines, do check out Meagan’s store. I am incredibly impressed. Plus, if you buy one, you might just save an old typewriter from getting cut up so its keys can be turned into jewelry.
— Christopher Schwarz
Even the case. Everything works smoothly – as if my grandfather bought it new in 1949 then never touched it.
This seven-stick comb-back chair is built from a 2,000-year-old oak tree that was preserved in a Polish bog and recently harvested. The wood, which is remarkable and difficult to photograph, varies from charcoal black to a beautiful olive to a warm chestnut brown.
This chair is one of my newer designs; it uses a four-piece arm (for stability) and a thin shoe, which streamlines the look by removing visual bulk from the arm. It also is one of the most comfortable chairs I make.
This chair is set up for general use. The back leans 12° off the seat, and the seat is tilted 3°, so the back leans 15° off the floor. The seat is 16-3/4″ above the floor, which is a good height for most sitters. Overall, the chair is 38-1/2″ tall and there is 19″ between the arms.
Like all my chairs, the joints are assembled with hide glue and oak wedges, so the joints are strong but can be easily repaired by future generations. The bog oak is finished with a home-cooked linseed oil/wax finish that has no poisonous solvents. The finish offers low protection, but it is easy to reapply as needed (with no special skills or tools) by the owner.
Purchasing the Chair
This chair is being sold via silent auction. (I’m sorry but the chair cannot be shipped outside the U.S.) If you wish to buy the chair, send an email to lapdrawing@lostartpress.com before 3 p.m. (Eastern) on Tuesday, Jan. 17. In the email please use the subject line “Chair Sale” and include your:
First name and last name
U.S. shipping address
Daytime phone number (this is for the trucking quote only)
Your bid (don’t forget this…)
Shipping options: You are welcome to pick up the chair here in Covington, Ky., and also get a free yardstick and pencil. I am happy to deliver the chair personally for free within 100 miles of Cincinnati, Ohio. Or we can ship it to you via LTL. The cost varies (especially these days), but it is usually between $200 and $500.
One last note: I bought about half of this bog oak boule with a friend (hi, Andy!). I estimate I have enough wood for about five or six more bog oak stick chairs. So there will be more in the future. However, I cannot say exactly when. The wood is quite difficult to work, so I have to space these chairs out a bit to give myself a break.
However, I will say that the extra effort is worth it. I wish I could afford to keep one of these chairs for myself. The wood is stunning.
I use colored waxes quite a lot in my finishing, especially the darker colors. I’m partial to Liberon’s Black Bison Paste Wax, but that’s because it is the only brand I’ve ever used.
Colored waxes are a secret weapon when it comes to muting a particularly loud or brash color. They also add a depth to many finishes by adding a second hue to the overall piece.
Many antique restorers use black wax to add age to a finish or a repair, and it’s great for that. But that’s not my goal with black wax. I hope the photos here will explain it better than words.
First, ignore the sales copy about the stuff.
“(I)t feeds, polishes and helps to prevent wood drying out…” No, it doesn’t.
“Giving a highly lustrous and hardwearing finish…” It actually gives a low-luster finish. And, like all waxes, isn’t particularly durable.
“Well-known for its quality and pleasant, distinctive aroma…” Uhhh, this stuff smells like a 1950s cleaning solution for septic tanks. It is not pleasant. But the smell dissipates.
A comb-back chair with only acrylic paint. No black wax.
The same chair after a coat of colored wax.
Here’s what it really does. It’s a fast-drying sludge. Pick a color. I use “Dark Oak” and “Tudor Oak” and cannot tell the difference. When you use it on raw wood, such as oak, it will darken the oak and collect in the wood’s open pores. When used on raw closed-pore woods, such as pine, it generally looks like a smeary mess (a test board will confirm this).
I typically use it on top of a finish, either shellac or paint. When used over shellac, it will reduce the brashness of the new shellac, and the wax will collect in the pores of the wood, giving the piece a bit of dimension.
I adore the combination of mahogany, shellac and black wax. That’s what I use on virtually all of my campaign pieces.
When used over paint, the black wax gets a little smeary. It will collect in small voids left in the paint. And it will buff off unevenly on the paint. This is a good thing. A bright new paint finish can look like you dipped your furniture in Plasti-Dip. The uneven absorption of the wax mutes the single color.
Application
The stuff dries quickly, so I recommend you work small areas, about 12″ x 12″. Wipe the wax on generously with a rag so you can push it into the pores and small voids (wear protective gloves). Keep wiping the wax until you have a thin, consistent coat. Then immediately begin wiping it off with a clean, coarse rag (I use towels with a Huck weave – basically surgical towels). Keep wiping until you cannot remove any more. Then move on to the next section of the project.
If you botch a section, simply apply more wax. The wax’s solvent will dissolve the hard layer and you can wipe again. Or dab some mineral spirits on a rag and you can rub the surface to remove thin layers of wax until you get the effect you want.
If at any time you hate the finish, flood the surface with mineral spirits and rub hard. Most of the wax will come off.
A recent test board, The raw colors are on the right. The colors on the left show the appearance after a coat of the colored wax.
Test Boards
Making test boards is the only way to ensure you will get the effect you want. I’ve used the wax for decades and still do a test board before I start smearing the stuff on anything.
A tin of this stuff lasts for many years, so don’t be put off by the high price (about $35-$40 here in the U.S.). Don’t be put off by the smell (we call it the “stinky janitor” wax because it smells like some cleaning fluid from my childhood). And don’t be put off by the bison part. I think there’s hardly any bison in the wax.
