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
In a space of just 10” x 39” x 19-1/2”, H.O. Studley managed to arrange – with perfection – more than 250 of his tools into a dovetailed mahogany cabinet that has captivated tens of thousands of woodworkers since it was first unveiled in 1988 on the back cover of Fine Woodworking with a single shocking photograph.
After a brief stay at the Smithsonian, the cabinet was sold to a private collector and hadn’t been seen by the public for well over a decade. Studley’s workbench has never been on public view.
This book is an in-depth examination of one of the most beautiful woodworking tool chests ever constructed and presents the first-ever biography of Studley (1838-1925), a piano and organ builder in Quincy, Mass. It features measurements, details and photographs of all the tools in the cabinet. Every swinging frame, hinged panel and nook of this three-dimensional, multi-layered sculpture has been analyzed so you can understand how it folds in on itself like a giant piece of mahogany origami.
But most of all, you will see the cabinet in a way that only a handful of privileged people ever have. And you will realize that the magazine photograph that electrified the woodworking world in 1988 only scratches the surface of the cabinet’s complete magnificence.
The generation of Hardwicks who were Studley’s contemporaries included three brothers: Charles Henry Hardwick, Sr., Henry Everett Hardwick and Charles Theodore Hardwick. It was these men with whom Studley bought and sold real estate. Again, according to Hardwick family legend, somewhere along the path of these ventures was a loan from one or more of the Hardwick brothers to Henry O. Studley, a loan that was secured with his tool cabinet as collateral. It is unknown whether the loan was part of a specific real estate transaction or simply part of a larger portfolio of activities.
This scenario of the tool ensemble being collateral does make sense at some level. We know these basic facts: Studley was deeply engaged in real estate deals, including many with the Hardwick family; he possessed the tool cabinet preceding his retirement about 1919, as proved by the photographic portrait; about that time his wife had recently died after a lingering and debilitating illness; and Studley’s own health began to fail shortly thereafter. It is not a great leap to wonder if any of these events had financial implications, and the conveyance of the tool cabinet and workbench to the Hardwicks was a consequence of that circumstance.
At first, I arrived at that conclusion because it made sense. However, an examination of the public records surrounding the Stetson and Studley family finances does not support the idea that Studley’s disposal of the tool cabinet and workbench was financially driven. His wife was from a wealthy family, and he had become wealthy himself along with her during their long marriage. A Stetson family deposition from 1940 relating to the disposition of some family assets states that [Mrs. Studley] “died without leaving any estate as she was bedridden for six years prior to her death and had used all her savings for expenses.” This deposition, however, does not align with the facts of Abbie’s will and probate, which lists substantial assets.
Given the probability that Studley’s finances did not force him to relinquish his tool cabinet, an equally plausible possibility, and in fact my own inescapable conclusion, is that it was a simple gift from Studley to Mr. Hardwick as a gesture of friendship and generosity, especially given that Studley was retired from the workshop and that he had presumably prospered through his partnerships with the Hardwicks over many years.
This Hardwick family Christmas card, probably from the 1950s, presents an image of the four-story granite manse that served as home to several generations of the family and was perhaps the starting point for Henry Studley’s career as a skilled craftsman. (Image courtesy of Peter Hardwick)
There is of course at this point no way to know the circumstances of the transaction and transfer; there is no known documentary evidence for the change in ownership. Still, it makes for some fascinating contemplation to consider the series of events at the end of Studley’s life that led him to part with this treasure, an inspired product of his own genius and hands.
Whatever the cause, the responsibility for custody and care of the tool cabinet and workbench now rested with the Hardwicks. Were it not for this caprice, the Hardwicks might be best known for their granite quarry and a scandalous murder that occurred there on July 29, 1910. In this sensational crime, Henry E. Hardwick and Mrs. Marianna Restelli, among others, were killed by her son, a quarryman/stone cutter named Luigi (Louis) Restelli. The relationship between Mr. Hardwick and Mrs. Restelli is unknown, and their simultaneous murder may be entirely coincidental.
Luigi Restelli was known to associate with an anarchist cell in Quincy, and a contemporaneous account in The New York Times suggests that the Quincy cell was under instructions from anarchist headquarters in Barre, Vt., to “kill rich people.” Numerous contemporaneous sources affirm the same account. The consensus for the motive behind the attacks seems to be “Madness” brought on by debt, and Restelli’s body was found in a nearby quarry pit following his suicide.
Interestingly, those infamous events are the first solid reference for anything dealing even remotely with the provenance of the tool cabinet ensemble. Yet those events have nothing to do directly with Studley or his cabinet, and tell us nothing new about the circumstances of its creation, the particulars by which it changed hands, nor even why it changed hands. But the events of that fateful day did cast the die for the chain of custody of the cabinet to this very day. Again, we do not know precisely when nor why it came into the Hardwicks’ possession, but we know where it went from then on.
With the murder of Henry Everett Hardwick, his son Charles Henry Hardwick (the first), a bachelor, inherited the family fortune and assets. This fortune eventually included the tool cabinet and workbench.
The detail of Charles Henry Hardwick’s bachelor status is critical to the story. It meant that on his death the progression of the family properties moved into the lineage of his brother Robert A. Hardwick, then down through Robert’s only son Charles Henry Hardwick II, Peter’s father, and then to Charles Henry “Hank” Hardwick III, Peter’s older brother. Hank was the family heir as the oldest son of his generation, and so inherited everything including the Studley tool cabinet. The final Hardwick steward of the tool cabinet was Charles Henry Hardwick II’s younger son Peter (thus not a primary heir), who owned it from the 1970s into the end of the 1990s.
Peter’s father, Charles Henry Hardwick II, died tragically and unexpectedly at the age of 44, predeceasing his own father.
Peter Hardwick’s earliest memories of the tool cabinet were in the 1950s when he was visiting his great-grandfather’s giant stone house in Quincy. The tool chest was displayed in the second-floor hallway next to the law office of his great uncle Charles, the older, bachelor brother of Peter’s grandfather Robert. The tool chest was protected behind a plastic panel. There it remained throughout Peter’s youth, adolescence and early adulthood, and in profound understatement he says, “It was very interesting to a little boy.”
Peter also recalls the workbench first being used as a table in the “stable-boy’s quarters above the garage” in Quincy and then the base alone used as an elegant dressing table in the mansion without the slab workbench top attached.
The Family Moves to Maine Peter joined the military in the 1960s, went to Vietnam and, “A lot happened [with family activities] during that time.” During Peter’s military service, his grandfather Robert and brother Hank sold the big house in Quincy and moved to property the family owned in Maine. They took everything from the Quincy house to Maine, including the tool cabinet and workbench, plus as much of the fine Studley handiwork from the granite house as they could move, including a number of fireplace surrounds. Two of those wound up in the farmhouse where Peter lives; the remaining examples were installed in grandfather Robert’s nearby house.
Unfortunately the space inside Peter Hardwick’s house is not conducive to an overall image of this magnificent Studley-made architectural detail. The lower portion is included in Sandor Nagyszalanczy’s original image of the cabinet. The image was edited for clarity and privacy.
Peter returned from the military and moved to Maine about 1970 where he worked on the family farm. The three men, Peter, Robert and Hank, lived on adjacent family properties in Maine.
When Peter’s grandfather Robert died in 1976, “Hank,” Peter’s older brother by three years, inherited the family properties and possessions, including the tool chest and workbench. Hank’s interests lay in other directions so the tool cabinet and workbench remained in storage in a family barn. All the while, Peter never forgot the captivating collection he remembered as a boy visiting his great-uncle’s law offices in the family home in Quincy.
Once the collection passed to the ownership of his brother, Peter urged him to “take care” and preserve the tool cabinet and contents. In the early 1970s Peter offered to purchase the tool cabinet and related accouterments, including the workbench, and as part of the transaction the brothers retained an antiques dealer to appraise it. The dealer pronounced the tool cabinet and its contents as “something special” and appraised it at $500.
Always (and still) a car buff, Peter owned a pristine 1934 Ford four-door sedan that was dark blue with low original mileage. Fortunately for our story, Hank was very much interested in the car and a deal was struck between thetwo brothers. Peter promptly made the trade and took possession of the tool cabinet and displayed it in his parlor for more than a decade.
The only place Peter Hardwick had where the tool cabinet could be displayed was inside his unused fireplace surround in the cottage parlor. Appropriately, the surround was some of Studley’s handiwork from the Quincy house. (Photo courtesy of Sandor Nagyszalanczy)
The Fan Frenzy Begins In the late 1980s Peter installed a new chimney in his home, and, in doing what guys do on such a momentous occasion, invited a friend over to show off his newly completed project. This friend, an insurance agent, saw the tool cabinet, recognized its special-ness and encouraged Peter to insure it. This event, Peter said, “Opened a can of worms!”
Peter tried to figure out exactly what it was that he had and how much to insure it for, and so he turned to Fine Woodworking, the Smithsonian and an antiques appraiser for answers. At Fine Woodworking magazine, Senior Editor Sandor Nagyszalanczy took the call and carries the memories vividly.
In early 1988, Nagyszalanczy made arrangements to go visit it during another scouting trip to Maine. When he opened the chest, it was, and I am quoting him, “Jaw dropping to floor!” He set up to take the photographs that eventually entered directly into our collective consciousnesses via the backcover of that magazine.
At that moment, Peter’s life of stewardship of the tool cabinet changed forever. In an age before e-mail, the result of that single back-cover image – and the ensuing posters – was an onslaught of actual “fan mail” for the tool cabinet that overwhelmed him. He received so much mail that he rented a dedicated post office box just for the unsolicited correspondence being forwarded to him by Fine Woodworking. Peter’s only regret from this period was that he did not save the fan mail.
The Smithsonian One of the correspondents was the Smithsonian Institution’s National Museum of American History Curator David Shayt. While on vacation, Shayt visited Peter and they struck up a fast friendship based initially on their mutual interest in the tool collection, but it soon evolved to reflect the fact that both men were affable and genuinely good guys.
At the time, Peter had a dilemma. He owned a family heirloom that was also a monumental piece of Americana, and he was concerned about its security and preservation in a simple Maine farmhouse. Shayt proposed a temporary solution. What if Peter loaned the tool cabinet to the Smithsonian for a 10-year period, during which the Smithsonian would bear all the responsibility for it? Once again, Peter reached an agreement to foster the care and preservation of a genuine national treasure, a theme that has touched him throughout his life.
While at the Institution the cabinet was conserved and exhaustively documented, and included in a small vignette adjacent to the exhibit “Engines of Change: The American Industrial Revolution 1790-1860,” with several other tool chests and cabinets for various trades. Though the larger exhibit lasted almost 20 years (late 1986 to mid-2006), the Studley tool cabinet was included for perhaps only a third of that time, probably from about 1992-1999. No doubt seen by thousands of woodworkers there, the Internet has numerous accounts of woodworkers who were captivated by it. I spoke recently with one visitor, a woodworker, who recalls it “being displayed a long way back from the glass, and in the dark.”
During the time of the Smithsonian possession, the collection was photographed and documented, and underwent a thorough cleaning and some conservation treatment, as well as being included in the small exhibit. Meanwhile, the torrent of fan mail kept coming, becoming even more of an avalanche with the issuing of the poster, then a Fine Woodworking article, a second edition of a poster and finally a third. The maelstrom of mail led Peter to reconsider his continued ownership of the collection.
And it was one of those letters that again changed the course of the Studley tool cabinet’s history.
Enter Mister Stewart Among those letters Peter received in the late 1990s was a polite and understated letter from Mister Stewart that expressed admiration for and interest inthe tool cabinet. After subsequent correspondence and conversations, Peter decided that Mister Stewart was the right person to become the new ownerand caretaker for the treasure.
Chapter 1 contains information on resawing the plane blank into the two cheeks and the midsection. It also shows how to determine which would become the front, back, top, and bottom of the blank, and how to mark these parts out with a cabinetmaker’s triangle.
Following are the remaining techniques for making hand planes. Also included is a list of the tools needed for these procedures.
Tools and Supplies Needed • Six-inch combination square • Protractor • Pencil • Block plane • Practice stock: straight-grained hardwood, about 18 inches long, 3/4 inch thick, and 3 inches wide • Dowels (5/16 x 2 inches) • Brad-point drill bit (5/16 inch) • Drill press or power hand drill • Dovetail saw or razor saw • Chisel (1/2 inch) • Clamping cauls: two pieces of 3/4-inch particleboard or plywood about 12 inches long and 3 inches wide • Router with a 1/2-inch guide bushing and 3/8-inch bit
Optional Tools and Materials • Double sticky tape—thin type for carpet • Plug cutter (5/16 inch) • Sanding drum (3-inch diameter)
Preparing the Glue Surfaces The plane blank has been resawn into the two cheeks and the midsection, and the front, back, top, and bottom have been marked. The next step is to smooth and flatten the adjacent surfaces of the cheeks and the midsection that eventually will be glued back together. With experience, hand tools quickly do the job: a plane can be used to smooth the surfaces or a scraper can be used to remove defects like raised lines left by a chips in the planer knives. Avoid hand-sanding because the outer margins tend to get rounded, which only accentuates the glue lines. Another option is to leave the surfaces as they are off the machine; the glue lines may be apparent once the plane is assembled, but it should hold together securely.
Laying Out and Sawing the Front and Back Blocks
Determine the position of the throat opening on the midsection and lay out the angles that when sawn will create the front and back blocks. A strong word of caution: The layout and cuts occur on the midsection; be sure to separate it from the cheeks before proceeding. The plane blank is ruined if the cheeks are sawn mistakenly.
The throat opening will be slightly more than halfway along the bottom of the mid-section, closer to the front end than the back. (If you feel stranded without precise measurements, a throat opening located five-ninths of the total length will do. To determine this, multiply the length of the blank times five, divide this number by nine, and measure that result from the back end of the blank.)The exact location is not critical, but why should the throat plate be in this area? One of the most demanding planing tasks is preparing boards for edge-joining. It requires precise control of the plane. The planing stroke begins at a stand still and ends with the plane in motion. With the throat opening forward of center, less of the sole of the plane is resting on the board when the blade begins its cut, but the plane is easy to control because it is motionless. Because of the throat opening placement, when the blade finishes its cut more of the sole will be in contact with the board, which helps you balance the plane while it is in motion.
4–2. A plane blank with front-and-back-block layout on the midsection.
From the point of the throat opening, lay out a 45-degree line angled back toward the rear of the plane. This defines the back block and the ramp that the plane iron will eventually rest upon. From the point of the throat opening, move forward about 1/16 inch and draw a line angling to the front of the plane at 62 degrees. The center block is now divided into three sections: the back block, the triangular center section, which becomes scrap, and the front block, forming both the front of the throat opening and the front portion of the plane (4–2).
4–3. Finger clearance between the cross-pin and front block must be wide enough to conveniently extract jammed shavings.
The front block is angled at 62 degrees for several reasons. It’s about the steepest slope that gives sufficient clearance for shavings to exit between the front block and the cross-pin while allowing enough space for most people’s fingers to remove an occasional jammed shaving (4–3). If it were much steeper, the space between the cross-pin and front block would be so tight that if shavings collected and jammed there, removal would be an irritating task requiring a pencil point or needle-nose pliers.
4–4. An enlarged view of the throat opening. It widens as the bottom wears. The steeper the angle at the tip of the front block, the slower the process.
The angle can be made lower, but that may interfere with the shaping of shorter planes. Also, as the bottom of the plane wears, the throat opening widens; the lower the angle of the front block, the faster the widening occurs. One of our goals and one of the advantages of making your own plane is that the plane can have a very narrow throat opening (4–4); it pays to maintain this narrow opening as long as possible. Alternatively, the front block can be cut with a curve, keeping the angle steep at the throat opening and sweeping away in the vicinity of the cross-pin (4–5). This is a good solution. Still, I prefer a straight cut for the first plane because you can practice truing that cut before advancing to the critical job of truing the ramp of the back block, using the same techniques.
4–5. The curved front block increases finger clearance between it and the cross-pin.
Prepare the band saw for making the cuts along the angled lines by precisely squaring the blade to the table. The band saw may not seem the natural choice for this task over the table saw, but in actuality neither machine will make the cuts accurately enough. Making these angled cuts on short, thick stock feels dangerous with a table saw, and requires some setup time. I prefer to use the more benign band saw, carefully making the cuts freehand, and cleaning up the sawn surface to perfection with a block plane. Saw to the waste side of the lines—within the triangular area. Make the 45-degree cut first and don’t be concerned if the saw kerf nicks a bit of the 62-degree line (4–6). Save the triangular scrap.
4–6. The sawn-out front and back blocks.
Now clean up the cuts to produce smooth, square, and straight surfaces on both the front and back blocks. Use the block plane to do this. In experienced hands the task is completed in one or two minutes for each block. A complete novice may require half an hour for the first block and five or ten minutes for the second. This is time very well spent, for in the process you will have touched on almost all the skills needed for just about every other type of planing task. It is a challenging way to start off—trial by fire, if you will—but persevere and there will be great rewards.
4–7. Bottom view of a block plane. Set the cutting edge precisely parallel to the bottom of the plane.
Cleaning Up the Cuts – Adjusting the Block Plane The block plane must be tuned up and effectively sharpened for the work to proceed smoothly (see Chapters 2 and 3). Set the blade for a very fine cut with the blade protruding evenly across its width. Back off the blade until it does not protrude through the bottom. View the cutting edge from the back of the plane with the plane turned upside down. As you slowly bring the blade forward, see if the cutting edge is skewed in relation to the bottom of the plane; it should appear parallel (4–7). To make adjustments, pivot the blade, bringing one corner up and the other down, using the plane’s lateral adjuster. For some inexpensive block planes that lack adjusting mechanisms, the blade is brought forward and adjusted laterally by gently tapping the back of it with a two- to three-ounce hammer, and it is backed up by tapping the back edge of the plane itself (see Making an Adjusting Hammer on pages 102 and 103). The plane must be properly tensioned for this to work well (see Chapter 2). You will probably find it more precise to adjust the plane with a hammer even if it has a mechanical lateral adjuster.
4–8. The thumb is used to feel for the protruding cutting edge.
When the blade is nearly protruding, let your sense of touch guide the adjustments. Gently caress both sides of the throat opening with the pad of the thumb while bringing the blade forward (4–8). Both corners of the blade should simultaneously become barely discernible. If not, make lateral adjustments until the same amount of slight drag is felt on the thumb at both corners. If the throat opening is very fine, you will be very close to the final setting. If the throat is wide, the blade will most likely need to come out a bit further yet. That is because the pad of the thumb dips into the larger opening and can feel the blade before it actually extends beyond the bottom of the plane.
Final Adjustments Begin a stroke on the practice stock. If the blade thunks against the wood and you feel yourself tensing to shove it through, stop: the blade is out too far. Though it is difficult to suppress the urge, there is no need to continue; the only likely result is damage to the planed surface, be it a serious dig or planing it out of true. Back the blade up and try again.
Ideally, the first stroke should either produce no shavings or take the smallest bit, requiring little if any effort to slide the plane across the wood. The shaving should be so thin that it falls apart and is almost dusty. This is because the jointed surface of the wood is not smooth, but slightly scalloped by the action of the jointer cutters; the blade hits the high points of each scallop and misses the low. Always adjust the depth of cut in this fashion, progressing from no shaving to a very thin shaving to the final setting. In this way, you will eliminate accidental digs and the frustrations of dealing with them.
To produce a shaving of equal thickness across its width requires setting the lateral adjustment of the blade exactly. The blade edge must be perfectly parallel to the bottom of the plane. This is crucial; if not done properly, it is very difficult to adequately true or polish a surface. When the blade takes a deeper bite from one side of a surface, either each subsequent pass dips it lower and lower or that corner of the blade may leave a prominent dig.
4–9. Planing with the left edge of the blade.
To check the lateral blade setting, take two shavings, first utilizing only the left side of the blade, and then only the right. The plane is held flat on the practice stock but offset to the left, and then the right, rather than planing right down the middle of the stock (4–9 and 4–10). Compare the thickness of the two shavings and be sensitive to the amount of resistance you feel; it takes more effort to produce a thicker shaving. You may find that one side takes a small bite and the other side produces nothing. Adjust the blade in the direction of the lesser cut and try again, until the resistance feels identical when planing with either corner of the blade. It may also be necessary to readjust the depth of cut.
4–10. Planing with the right edge of the blade.
The shavings are of the proper thickness when they lose their “woodiness” or stiffness; instead they feel fluffy and soft when bunched together, like a cotton ball (4–11). Practice your stroke (see below) until continuous shavings can be consistently made from one end of the practice stock to the other. If the board gets out of true from the initial efforts, true it with the jointer; otherwise, it’s difficult to produce a continuous, thin shaving.
4–11. “Cottony” shavings on the left; “woody” shavings on the right.
With only a little experience, peeking at the throat opening and stroking your thumb across it will reveal almost all that is needed to know to set the blade properly. Practice stock becomes unnecessary. It takes just a few minor adjustments as you begin planing to set the blade; this is done without a second thought and with no time lost.
