The following is excerpted from “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker,” by Anonymous, Christopher Schwarz and Joel Moskowitz.
It begins in 1839. In that year, an English publisher issued a small book on woodworking that has – until now – escaped detection by scholars, historians and woodworkers.Titled “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker,” this short book was written by an anonymous tradesman and tells the fictional tale of Thomas, a lad of 13 or 14 who is apprenticed to a rural shop that builds everything from built-ins to more elaborate veneered casework. The book was written to guide young people who might be considering a life in the joinery or cabinetmaking trades, and every page is filled with surprises.
Unlike other woodworking books of the time, “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker” focuses on how apprentices can obtain the basic skills needed to work in a hand-tool shop. It begins with Thomas tending the fire to keep the hide glue warm, and it details how he learns stock preparation, many forms of joinery and casework construction. It ends with Thomas building a veneered mahogany chest of drawers that is French polished. However, this is not a book for children. It is a book for anyone exploring hand-tool woodworking.
Thanks to this book, we can stop guessing at how some operations were performed by hand and read first-hand how joints were cut and casework was assembled in one rural England shop.
Here’s what you’ll find in our expanded edition of this book:
• A historical snapshot of early 19th-century England. Moskowitz, a book collector and avid history buff, explains what England was like at the time this book was written, including the state of the labor force and woodworking technology. This dip into the historical record will expand your enjoyment of Thomas’s tale.
• The complete text of “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker,” unabridged and unaltered. We present every word of the 1839 original (plus a chapter on so-called “modern tools” added in a later edition), with footnotes from Moskowitz that will help you understand the significance of the story.
• Chapters on the construction of the three projects from “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker.” Schwarz built all three projects – a Packing Box, a dovetailed Schoolbox and a Chest of Drawers – using hand tools. The construction chapters in this new edition of “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker” show the operations in the book, explain details on construction and discuss the hand-tool methods that have arisen since this book was originally published.
• Complete construction drawings. Lost Art Press drafted all three projects in SketchUp to create detailed drawings and cutting lists for the modern woodworker.
Confession time: No one has ever taught me how to fit a lock. I have always done it by instinct, feeling along in the dark until the thing fit and worked (after a good deal of fussing).
So reading the directions in “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker” was a real revelation. As a result, fitting the lock for the Schoolbox was straightforward, fast and simple. That’s the good news. The bad news is that I don’t have anything to compare it to except my own self-taught ham-handed cave-carving methods. So you’re not going to get anything to compare Thomas’s methods to.
In any case, this method works great. Here we go. The key to everything with setting the lock is the pin that the key turns on. Yes, the keyhole is important, but not as important as the location of the pin. Let this square piece of brass guide you and you’ll be fine.
Bore a hole through the front of the box using a birdcage awl. The sharp arrises of the awl will bore through the front. Barring that, drill a hole that is smaller than the pin in the lockset and test the fit.
Find the centerline of the front of the Schoolbox and strike a vertical centerline near the top. The line need only be 1″ or 2″ long. Now you want to bore a scant hole through the front that the pin will push into (that’s why the pin is proud of the lock mechanism). You can measure this location, as Thomas did. Or you can line up the top of the lockset with the top of the carcase and push the pin into the soft pine. Then set the lockset aside and use a birdcage awl to bore a hole straight through the front of the box, where the pin should go. When you break through to the inside of the box, try to fit the pin into the hole in the front of the box. Widen the hole on both sides until the pine holds the pin right where it will be in the end.
With the lockset in place, position your square up to the extents of the top plate and trace those lines on the top edge of your box.
Now mark where the top plate of the lockset will fit in the top edge of the Schoolbox. Working from the front of the box, press the pin into your hole. Clamp the lockset in place and trace the extents of the lockset onto the top edge of the Schoolbox. Use a square to help.
Here I’m using a cutting gauge to mark the front edge of the lockset on the top edge of the box. Then measure the thickness of this top plate and mark that on the inside of the box. Start wasting away this shallow mortise.
Now you want to mark out the width of the top of the lockset’s plate on the box. Set your marking or cutting gauge to the width of the plate and use the gauge to connect the distance between the two pencil lines you just struck. The mortise for the top plate of your lockset is now ready to be wasted away.
Router planes excel at this type of detail work. When you need mortises that are exactly the same depth (such as matching hinge mortises), a small router plane is the tool for the job.
To remove this waste, score it with a chisel that you drive with taps of your mallet. You can then remove the waste with the chisel or use a router plane to ensure the depth of your mortise is consistent.
A drawer-lock chisel is great for this sort of close-quarters work. Score the waste with the drawer-lock chisel then remove the scored waste with a bench chisel by working from the top.
Now push the pin of the lock into the hole in the inside of the Schoolbox. The works of the lock will butt against the front piece. Trace around the box that holds the works. Measure the thickness of the lockset and mark this as the finished depth of your lock’s mortise. You can chisel out this recess, or you can saw its extents, then chisel it.
Use a fairly thick pencil lead to mark around the works of the lock. The corners of the lockset might be rounded over during manufacturing, and a thick pencil will actually give you a more accurate line than a skinny pencil lead.
The rest is easy. Press the lock into this mortise and trace around its back plate. Then waste away this area using the same techniques discussed above. If you measured carefully you should have a fullmortise lock that fits completely flush without thinning the front of the Schoolbox any more than necessary.
Use some small files to enlarge the hole for the key. Use a rattail file to enlarge the hole around the pin. Use a flat file to make room for the rest of the key. It doesn’t have to be perfect if you are going to cover the keyhole with an escutcheon plate.
Screw the lockset in place and fetch the steel hinges. They need to be installed in the case before the lid is affixed.
The following is excerpted from “The Essential Woodworker,” by Robert Wearing. In our opinion, “The Essential Woodworker” is one of the best books on hand-tool usage written in the post-Charles Hayward era. Wearing was classically trained in England as a woodworker and embraced both power and hand tools in his shop and in his teaching. The book is filled with more than 500 hand-drawn illustrations by Wearing that explain every operation in a hand-tool shop. His illustrations are properly drafted, drawn in perspective and masterfully clear.
Design brief: Before commencing on any design other than a copy a design brief must be prepared. A design brief is a collection of all the data relevant to the construction and use of the article and the design is based on this information. The brief can best be produced by writing down as many questions as possible about the job, and then by experiment, research, measurement or judgment, find the answers to these questions. For example, questions about a coffee table might include the following:
Where will it be used? Who will use it? How many people will use it? What will it carry? How will people sit at it? What will be its top shape? How high will it be? What will be its basic constructional form? What will be the finish? What wood is preferred or is available? Will the top have any special finish? Will a shelf or rack be required?
Design sketch The answers to these practical questions will give the worker the length, the width and the height required. From these three figures a number of design sketches may be produced and the best one selected (Fig 90, for example).
Working drawing From the design sketch it will now be possible to build up a working drawing. For items of coffee-table size a full-sized drawing is an advantage; larger items must of course be drawn to scale. These full-sized drawings can be drawn on decorator’s ‘lining’ (ceiling) paper. Before making a start the following table of ‘finished sizes’ should be consulted (Fig 91).
The sawn sizes are those used by the timber yards when sawing logs into boards. The finished sizes are those to which the sawn boards can be planed, either by hand or by machine. This figure is both the maximum which can be obtained from the sawn board and also the size marketed as a planed board. In planning component sizes these sizes should be kept in mind in order to use wood with the greatest economy. A reduction of thickness of 1mm (1/16in.) may afford a considerable cost saving.
The working drawing (side view) (Fig 92) is built up as follows. Draw the ground line (A) then draw the top of the table (B). Consult the finished sizes and draw in the top thickness (C). Mark this off to length (D). Consider the overhang and draw in the outside edge of the legs (E). Consult the finished sizes again and draw in the leg thickness (F). The top rail (G) is drawn in next, wide enough to give a good joint but not wastefully wide. This can be made narrower if the extra support of a stretcher rail is given. The end (width) view can be similarly drawn. To save space this can be superimposed on the front view (shaded area). When a proper mortice and tenon construction is to be used (as in this example) the length of the tenon must now be ascertained. This is easily done (Fig 93) by making a full-sized drawing on graph paper. Finally the inside edges of the legs can be tapered below the joint. This design retains the simplicity of an all-right-angle construction.
To obviate frequent reference to a drawing in the early stages it is convenient to produce a cutting list (Fig 94) and to work solely from this in the early stages.
Finished (i.e. final) sizes are used in the list, which avoids allowances being added at several stages in the work. Unfortunately, although there are only three dimensions there are many more names for them, e.g. length, height, width, depth, broad, thick, and so on. The three to be used are length (the distance along the grain), thickness (the smallest dimension) and width (the intermediate size). Width and thickness are often the same size.
To avoid confusion components are often lettered, as in the first column. The remaining columns are self-explanatory except for the blank one. A tick here signifies that the component has been sawn out. A cross tells that the piece has been produced to size and is ready for marking out.
The division of the periods from 1500 to 1800 into the ages of the Carpenter, Cabinet Maker, and Designer is convenient because these terms suggest the type of furniture being produced. In the earliest period furniture was made by the carpenter, who regarded furniture-making as incidental to his general work, and it therefore bore the characteristics of a craftsman used to large joinery work. Soon after 1660 some woodworkers began to specialise in furniture, and so came the age of the cabinet maker. Lastly, at about the middle of the eighteenth century, furniture began to be associated with the names of the individual designers and craftsmen, hence the term Age of the Designer.
The following is an excerpt from “The Stick Chair Journal 2.” “The Stick Chair Journal” is also still available. While supplies last, you can purchase a bundle of issues Nos. 1 & 2 at a reduced price.
Your dining chairs can be more comfortable without being redesigned. The problem is that the tables won’t allow it.
Almost every modern dining table is 30″ tall. And almost every modern chair has a seat that is 18″ off the floor. That 12″ of difference allows space for the tabletop, the table’s aprons (if it has any) and the sitter’s legs.
Here’s the problem with those standards: An 18″ seat is too dang high for many sitters. My mother-in-law is about 5’2″, and every modern chair leaves her feet dangling over the floor like a schoolgirl in an adult chair.
After 10 minutes or so, the chair becomes incredibly uncomfortable as her blood supply to her legs is cut off by the seat, which is compressing her thighs. In the 1990s, I made her a small 4″-tall footstool for her dining set that would support her feet.
The solution to this problem, however, is not to build footstools for everyone whose shins are short.
Instead, the solution is to first lower the standard seat height of dining chairs by 2″ to 3″ or so. This will allow shorter people to rest their feet on the floor like regular human beings and sit comfortably for hours. What will a 15″ or 16″-high chair feel like for a tall person? Just fine. Their thighs will be above the seat, and if they want to lower them a bit, they can move their feet forward.
I’m 6’4″ and regularly sit in vernacular chairs that are 15″ and lower. I love them.
The only problem with this plan to cut all the chair legs down is the bog-standard, dyed-in-the-wool 30″-tall dining table. With shorter, more comfortable chairs, suddenly all the sitters’ elbows are below the tabletop, and everyone sitting around the table looks like a small child.
So, we also need to reduce the standard height of dining tables to 27″-28″ or so. That’s easy to do with a regular four-legged apron table – just cut down the four legs. Problem solved. But what if you own a pedestal table? Or a trestle table? There are solutions that involve trimming a little off the top and bottom of the trestle and pedestal. But some table designs won’t let you remove the full 3″ without making the table weak or weird-looking.
In 1933, Bengt Åkerblom asked a joiner in Sweden to build a chair to his specifications. The joiner refused to make thechair lower than the standard chair height. That’s how ingrained these standards are.
The only good solution is to start building dining tables that are 27″-28″ high. Then the chairs will come in line with lower seats. I don’t know why tables get to wag the dog, but that has been the case for more than 100 years.
Bengt Åkerblom wrote about this problem in his landmark “Standing and Sitting Posture” (1948). According to Åkerblom, here are the guidelines for a comfortable chair:
• The sitter should be able to shift position easily in the seat to use different resting positions.
• The height of the seat should not compress the thighs. He recommends a standard chair height between 15″ and 16″ .
• The seat should not be too deep. He recommends a seat should be no deeper than 15-3/4″. Seats can be as shallow as 8″, but this gets in the way of guideline No. 1 – the sitter needsroom on the seat to shift positions. A shallow seat does not allow this.
• The seat should slope backward by 3° to 5°.
• The seat should not be flat. It should be hollowed out a bit. Or it should have a thin cushion that is firm.
• Lumbar support is ideal. Having lumbar support and a backrest above can be very comfortable. The back can be inclined by as much as 25° to 30° off horizontal.
• Finally, and this is worth quoting Åkerblom directly: “In general, the height of the table must clearly conform to that of the chair and not vice versa.” He then goes on to recommend a table height of 27-1/2″.
At left, a sitter in an 18″-high chair at a table that is 30″ high. At right, the sitter in a 15″ chair. It is not the chair’s fault.
So today I opened my copy of “Human Dimension & Interior Space” (Watson-Guptill, 1979). This book is used by furniture designers and architects to construct interior spaces. I’ve used it for many years to figure out how tall a sideboard should be, or how long a table needed to be to seat eight people.
I turned to page 147-148, the section that deals with dining tables. It’s time to deal with “Line Item F,” which is the height of dining tables. I crossed out 29-30″ and wrote 27″.
Carving detail I made while working at the workshop of Theofanis Andravidiotis, Athens, Greece.
The following is excerpted from Mary May’s “Carving the Acanthus Leaf.” Learning to carve the acanthus leaf is – for carvers – like a pianist learning a Chopin étude, a young oil painter studying the genius of Rembrandt or an aspiring furniture maker learning to cut dovetails by hand.
For carvers, especially those who focus on Classical Western ornament, there comes a time they will inevitably encounter the acanthus leaf, learn it, master it and finally incorporate it into their own designs.
“Carving the Acanthus Leaf” is a deep exploration into this iconic leaf, which has been a cornerstone of Western ornamentation for thousands of years. May, a professional carver and instructor, starts her book at the beginning. She covers carving tools and sharpening with the efficiency of someone who has taught for years. Then she plunges the reader directly into the work.
It begins with a simple leaf that requires just a few tools. The book then progresses through 13 variations of leaves up to the highly ornate Renaissance and Rococo forms. Each lesson builds on the earlier ones as the complexity slowly increases.
Experiences in life often grow us and define what we become. But certain attitudes and ways of living create who we are. I can easily pinpoint various times and events throughout my life that steered me toward a somewhat curious life. This is the story of how I went from being a shy but adventurous girl to discovering woodcarving as a way of life.
My mom, the second oldest of seven children, was born to a conservative Calvinistic minister with a small church in Denver, Co. My dad was the oldest of 13 in a hardworking Dutch farm family in Iowa. They married just out of college, and within seven years had a brood of five rambunctious children.
Dad, even as a young man, dreamt of building a sailboat and traveling the world. Perhaps he imagined the seafaring adventure stories of his youth, or maybe he just thought it would be an opportunity to see the world. He was a man of few words, so it was often a mystery as to why dad did some of the things he did. But he was going to achieve his dream of building, traveling and living on a boat … and his wife and five children aged 4 to 11 (I was the 4 year old) were going to join him. My parents saved every penny and headed toward their dream. At the time, my dad was working as a systems analyst – a first-generation computer programmer. I remember long lengths of paper tape with multiple holes in it that we had a lot of fun with (as frugal as my parents were, we had to be creative with our toys).
Dad started building our 50′ trimaran in the back yard of our home in West Chicago, Ill., in the evenings and weekends. Trimarans consist of three complete boat hulls joined together, with the largest hull in the center and two smaller hulls on either side. Curious neighbors would ask why my dad was building three boats. Was he expecting a flood? In his quiet, humorous Dutch way, Dad let them guess for a while.
The “brood.” I am the one with ponytails sitting on dad’s lap.
It took three years of hard work, discipline, countless focused hours and all of our family’s resources to build dad’s (and now the family’s) dream. When the boat was finished, dad christened it “Pilgrim,” a name he chose after being touched by a sermon where the minister spoke of life being a day-to-day journey or pilgrimage. The minister expressed that if we live too much in either the past or future, we forget to experience the “pilgrimage” or “now” of life. Dad was deeply moved by that sermon and whether he realized it or not, this pilgrimage of his started all of his children on a course of unique and adventurous lives.
Where some have created a wall in their life that says, “here and no further,” dad taught us that it was OK to step over that wall and see what was on the other side. What touches me deeply to this day is that dad was not trying to prove anything to anyone through this adventure. Dreaming is one thing, but living that dream is so much more. He taught us not so much with words, but by how he lived.
The next year was spent experiencing the “live-aboard” boater’s life, enjoying the scenic river towns while traveling the length of the Mississippi River. Then we sailed to the Bahamas, visiting and exploring both inhabited and uninhabited islands. The early ’70s were a unique time to live on the water as many fellow boaters were hippies who had dropped out of society. From my 4-year-old vantage point, life was very curious. I remember a man with his long hair and a beard, rowing by our boat stark naked. (Is it possible to get this image out of my head?) After a while, nothing in the boating world seemed out of the ordinary. I just hope the man remembered to put sunscreen on.
Pilgrim II, a 54′ motor-sailer.
We returned from this wondrous trip, adjusted to a “normal” life on land and within seven years, dad got the boating bug again. He, along with our uncle Don, built another boat: Pilgrim II, a 54′ motor-sailer. By this time we had reached the wonderful teenage years. How my parents survived on a boat filled with five smelly teenagers for an entire year escapes comprehension.
On our second boat trip I was older and remember much more. We spent another year living aboard, and I cherish memories of exploring more islands, snorkeling in crystal blue waters, catching fresh fish and throwing my brattiest brother overboard when my sister and I thought he deserved it. Some islands we visited were uninhabited, and our five young imaginative minds lived our own “Gilligan’s Island”… I mean “Van Abbema’s Island.”
Because the boater’s life was our day-to-day existence, it became normal. We were not immune to the typical problems that arise in family life – teenage woes, the stress of living closely together and the Spam-inspired doldrums of eating it and canned corned beef day after day. We may not have recognized it or appreciated it as teenagers, but our boating adventures taught us that life is to be experienced, and dreams are to be lived.
My sister Ilene and I in our bleach-blond island girlmode.
And that story leads to how my hands learned to think.
With the wandering spirit instilled in me as a young child, my head was filled with dreams of travel and adventure. During my second year in college I spent an amazing semester studying in London. Much of my time was spent exploring its museums, grand cathedrals and glorious architecture. My mediocre grades proved I was not a great book student, but London’s sidewalks became my school, and my textbooks were its historic buildings. After completing my semester of study in London, I spent an adventurous month backpacking across Europe and becoming even more enchanted with the carved details found in the historic art and architecture. The seed of desire to learn carving was solidly planted.
When I returned to Minneapolis, I began to search ways to learn woodcarving. I did not want to learn just any woodcarving; I wanted to learn how to carve the beauty I had been captivated by throughout Europe.
For $5 at a garage sale, I bought a beginning woodcarving and whittling book, plus a large curved gouge and a heavy rubber mallet. I picked out a project from the book and dove in, teaching myself woodcarving using a salvaged piece of wood from a pile of my neighbor’s construction debris. The project I chose was to carve a mask of a man’s face. Despite that my carving gouge was dull, the wood was dense and splintery, and that I didn’t have a clue what I was doing, I completed my first carving project and it looked somewhat like a man’s face. The only reason I was able to achieve what I did was that my mallet was massive and my determination equal to it. Perhaps a butter knife would have been a better tool. My first attempt at carving taught me that if I wanted to carve anything close to what I saw in Europe, I would need to find a teacher. Where to start? I looked in the Yellow Pages under “Woodcarving” and discovered “Artistic Woodcarving Studio.” “Art” and “woodcarving” sounded exactly like what I was looking for. I called and spoke with Greek master carver Konstantinos Papadakis. After explaining my desire to carve, he invited me to his workshop, and from the moment I walked in I was in awe. I tried not to blink for fear of missing some amazing detail. I was consumed by the wood smell, the carving tools lying amongst the workbenches, the half-finished carvings hanging on the walls or sitting in corners or clamped to benches. I knew this was my world.
My first carving project.
Mr. Papadakis began his training in Greece as a boy of 12. Like many young European men learning a trade, he spent years studying as an apprentice, then progressed to a journeyman, after which he was respected as a highly skilled master carver. I wonder if I would have made the best career choice if I were required to make a life-long decision at the age of 12. I doubt it, as I seem to remember wanting to be an Olympic gymnast at that age.
Within months of studying with Mr. Papadakis two nights a week, it seemed that every moment of my day was consumed with thoughts of woodcarving. I was happily obsessed with this new art, as an amazing and exciting new world opened to me. I discovered something that I truly loved to do. Every aspect of this work – from designing it, to learning its tools, to exploring forms and shapes in wood – I loved it all.
As Mr. Papadakis learned the “old world” ways of carving as a young man in Greece, these were the techniques and styles he graciously shared with me. I learned to carve various styles of classical European carving, but focused primarily on the Byzantine style that is often seen adorning the interiors of Greek Orthodox churches.
In an attempt to be a responsible citizen and have a “real” job, I spent several years studying graphic arts and design. This paid the bills and put food on the table while I became engrossed in my new love of woodcarving.
Byzantine carved icon stand, carved by Mary May.
While working as a graphic artist, I focused every minute of my extra time to learn carving. As time went on, my day job became less interesting as I found myself drifting off, daydreaming of the carving designs I had waiting for me when I got home. There were clear signs that I was becoming obsessed. Sometimes when I was having conversations with people, I would catch myself studying the details and shapes of their faces and taking note of what tools I would use to carve that particular feature. I knew I was going down a path of no return.
Restless and eager to carve full time, I tried to discover a way to make that a reality. The sensible side of me said, “That is so irresponsible to give up a lucrative, secure job and to jump into an unknown dream.” But my not-so-sensible (and more influential side) said, “Why not?” As I was pondering when and how to make this major change in my life, the decision was made for me. I was laid off from my job. I even got severance pay.
Byzantine carved icon screen, St. Dionysius Orthodox Church, Athens, Greece.
After Mr. Papadakis generously shared and passed on his carving skills to me for three years, I thought it time to venture out and learn more and different techniques from other masters. To give me his blessing on this new venture, Mr. Papadakis connected me with a third-generation carving shop in Athens, Greece. It was a workshop where he first worked when starting his carving career. I traveled overseas again to the studio of Theofanis Andravidiotis and learned and worked alongside several Greek master carvers and their apprentices for three months. The workshop was famous for its carved interiors of Greek Orthodox churches in two classical styles: the Byzantine and Cretan (a style similar to Rococo and Baroque, also called Barocco). I spoke just enough Greek to lose an argument with a taxi driver and to recognize when I was sworn at by others in the workshop, which fortunately was not frequently. The other carvers must have thought it peculiar for a young American female to work in a traditional all-male workshop in a foreign country. I enjoyed the unique learning experience, so the environment was all part of the adventure. The workday consisted of starting precisely at 8 a.m., taking a break for thick, Greek coffee and tasty pastries around 10 a.m. and stopping for lunch at 1 p.m. After lunch we rested, started up again at 3 p.m. and continued until 7 or 8 p.m. They were long days, but it was fascinating to work as carvers have done for countless generations.
After my Greek adventure, I returned to London with a desire to study with more and varied master carvers. I attended City & Guilds of London Art College, focusing again on traditional classical carving designs and techniques. For three months I studied with several highly talented woodcarving instructors. During this period, I continued to spend time studying and absorbing the multitude of carved details of historic buildings throughout London. I also drank a lot of tea and feasted on deep-fried fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. I love England.
While I was studying in England, I jumped at an opportunity to work as a stone carver in Malaysia. You can read the full story of this in Chapter 10.
After so much traveling, learning and studying, it was time for me to settle down, stay in one place and focus on what I hoped would become my career: that of a professional woodcarver. I settled in an area that I thought would appreciate and recognize the type of work I do because of the historic nature of the city: Charleston, S.C. That was where I met my wonderful and patient husband, Stephen, who built a cozy carving studio for me. It is my sanctuary, and I spend countless hours joyfully lost in my carving world. The fateful story of how Stephen and I met is shared in Chapter 5.
The early part of my career was spent happily sequestered in my workshop to carve commissions for architects, furniture makers and designers. This time was spent fine-tuning the techniques and skills I had learned from the European master carvers. I was content to continue working in this secluded and isolated way, but life had other plans.
The next stage of my carving journey brought me out of my quiet workshop and dragged me kicking and screaming to once again socialize with my fellow man. Several members from the Society of American Period Furniture Makers (sapfm.org), a wonderful organization focusing on all aspects of traditional period American furniture, discovered that I carved furniture details in this style and asked if I would be willing to teach a class on carving the ball-and-claw foot. I reluctantly agreed, but I’m so glad I did. Since that time, the exciting world of teaching and sharing woodcarving has opened wide and has been yet another amazing journey for me. It was time for me to step out, get past being a wallflower and share what others had taught me. I had been perfectly happy making chips in the solitude of my workshop, but now it was time to share.
My workshop in South Carolina.
I was pleasantly surprised to discover that sharing this art was fun. As I began to teach at woodworking clubs and schools around the country, my “shyness” quickly disappeared as I discovered how many people had a desire to learn. It’s exciting to see the look on students’ faces as they grasp difficult concepts such as “carving with the grain.” When they share their completed carvings, it is rewarding to have been a part in their carving success.
Traveling and taking classes at different locations can be challenging for many people for any number of reasons. My ultimate desire is to make this art available to all, and as I recognized the difficulty for some to attend in-person classes, I started “Mary May’s Online School of Traditional Woodcarving.” Students with access to the Internet are now able to learn carving from their home and workshop. Starting with a single standard-definition video camera, we have grown to three high-definition camera angles, and my son, Caleb, is now my video editor (so I have time to do other things, such as write books). The carving topics range from simple beginner lessons to highly detailed ornamental carving, and a new video is added each week. The video lessons are virtually “real time” without much of the process removed. I even leave the mistakes in so that students can learn from me before making their own “oops.” I have been asked whether I will ever run out of carving topics to teach, and the answer is a definite “no.” I am eager to discover the new directions my school will lead.
With my parents introducing me to such an adventurous life at a young age, I recognize now how those experiences prepared me. They taught me to be unafraid of living my dreams and that seeking a dream is a way to a fulfilled life. Some people have commented, “You’re so lucky to have a hobby that has turned into your career.” I feel fortunate, but I believe it is far more than luck, as I see the hand of God in every opportunity that came my way. I am excited to see what my next adventure is.
Mary May August 2017 www.marymaycarving.com/carvingschool
