Lost Art Press

Author: meghanlostartpress

Design at the Point of a Tool

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Two Newport, R.I., cabinetmaking families, the Goddards and Townsends, built in a restrained style that reflected their Quaker beliefs and still exudes a vibrancy.


This is an excerpt from “By Hand and Eye” by Geo. R. Walker and Jim Tolpin. 

Afternoon sunlight streamed across the wide pine flooring and up over a small Newport table. I turned my head and paused a moment, taking in the glow of the red mahogany top. With a pencil and a clean strip of pine to act as a story stick, I carefully nudged the small board against the table apron and began recording transition points, marking carefully where each element stopped and started.

This Newport table made by Al Breed is an exact reproduction of one of the true masterpieces of American craft. Originals sell in the seven-figure range, and this was as close as I might hope to get with a sharp set of dividers in my hands (museums tend to frown on that). My aim wasn’t to record the table’s dimensions to make detailed plans. Instead, I searched for a hidden song or harmony woven in the form, hidden in plain sight. I’d often read about the mindset of pre-industrial designers, how they loved to play with proportions and create frozen music in built objects, and I wondered if this table might contain a song. Sound far-fetched? Since antiquity, designers understood that a small handful of simple ratios had a correlation with our musical scale. They spoke a design language built around simple whole-number proportions and applied them to a wide range of designs, from a tiny salt shaker to the entire layout of a city, and everything in between, including furniture.

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Small cabinet shops used simple proportions to create pleasing designs. This sideboard uses the simple ratio of 2:3 to govern the form and organize the smaller details.

With a square, each tick mark became a line on my story stick, transforming it into a map I could explore with dividers. My hands paced the divider points back and forth, adjusting the tool again and again, crisscrossing and retracing my steps. Then it happened. Like taking a pencil rubbing on the carved face of a weathered tombstone, a small series of overlapping notes appeared, running across the apron supporting the top: octave, fifth, fourth, fifth, octave.

Not some grand symphony meant for a cathedral, just a subtle cello or flute piece with a few notes and a quiet rhythm. I’d been “looking” at that table for days but now I was “seeing” it. As I walked around it, the frozen music stood out clearly to my eyes. It was a moment of clarity, like when you spot a familiar landmark and the feeling of being lost vanishes. It also was a moment of connection, a rare glimpse into the artisan age. Connection, after all, is what design is all about: building things that connect and ring true. I want to be careful here and not romanticize this. It’s not about going back in time and idealizing another age or being awestruck by period styles that were once the height of fashion. It’s about drawing from our rich legacy of woodcraft to see what it offers the modern woodworker. That’s the string that pulled Jim Tolpin and me together and got us so excited about what we call “artisan age design.” Both of us marvel at the sheer simplicity of it, how it flows from hand and eye intuitively.

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Something simple hid just beneath the surface. After my dividers smoked it out, I marveled that I hadn’t seen it earlier.

This is a gateway into a design language practiced in small cabinetmaking shops prior to the mid-19th century (though there are hints that it may have survived into the early 20th century). Lessons from that artisan age are still powerful and relevant because they are intuitive to our core. Do you remember when you first learned to sing as a child? Admit it, none of us can. It was so natural it sprang out of the mouth of babes. In the same way, this design language is a way of seeing and building that connects with how we are wired, tapping into roots deeply embedded in our makeup. It relies on proportions found in our own bodies as well as woven throughout the natural world around us. This powerful organic connection from nature is at the core of why these ideas hold sway (even if in the subconscious). We react differently to the song of a meadowlark than to the din from a nearby highway.

Let’s be clear, though: Traditional design is not a list of “Thou shalls” and “Thou shalt nots” etched in a pair of bookmatched mahogany slabs. Instead, it’s a collection of observations about how we relate to our environment. Because it’s based on more than 2,600 years of human experience, some inescapable patterns emerge. We tend to connect to visual compositions that convey a sense of harmony and movement. We also react intuitively to designs that can be easily read by our eye and tell a story. Our eyes avoid, or react with apathy, to designs that give a sense of aimlessness or lack a spark of life.

— Meghan B.

Carving a Braided Pattern

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This finished version of the braid can be further cleaned up with light cuts of the gouge, or left as-is. There’s a wide spectrum of what works with this carving.


This is an excerpt from “Joiner’s Work” by Peter Follansbee.

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The bottom margin, the angled strike of the #7 gouge, the horizontal centerline and the punched mark just to the right of the gouge cut – the foundation for this pattern.

A braided pattern builds on the previous example (of the gouge cut). It’s cut with the same technique, but this time, for those who like measuring stuff, it is marked out in a measured spacing. For the braid, the layout is the key.

Start by striking the bottom margin with a marking gauge. Then use 3/4″ #7 gouge and strike it just as in the first exercise, only now the incised cut is not perpendicular to the margin, but tilts a little to the right. The top of this incised cut shows where to strike the horizontal centerline. Mark that line, then strike a round punch just to the right of the gouge cut. My round punch is an old 5/32″ nail set.

Now mark the height of the top margin, making it the same distance off the horizontal centerline as the bottom margin. It’s simple really. Strike the gouge from the other side of the punched dot, aiming in the other direction. Its tilt angle is fixed by the margin/centerline spacing.

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Now it’s automatic pilot. Position the gouge between the punched mark and the margin and go.

With a compass, pace off the spacing of the punched marks on the centerline. These are either the width of the gouge or just a bit more.

Once they’re stepped off, strike each of these with the punch. Bang, bang, bang. Then, take the gouge and strike all the cuts that go down to the left of the punched marks, then those that go up to the right. It’s very orderly.

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All struck, the design almost could stop right there and look just fine. But keep going.

Fiddle around with your spacing on some scrap. You can do it on paper, but you might as well just start working it on wood. It only takes a few minutes. The amount of tilt to the design is determined by the spacing between the centerline and margins, the size of the gouge(s) and the paced-off punch marks. Too steep looks dull; leaned over too far looks stretched out. You’ll know it when you see it.

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Now it’s starting to look like something. Shadows start to make things look better.

Now go back and remove the chip. This chip is shorter in length than what you just did above. Think fingernail parings, crescent moons, that sort of stuff.

Using the same gouge, extend the arcs from the margin curving down into the neighboring cuts. Repeat this at the top and bottom margin.

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This step begins connecting each element.

Now using the narrow #5 gouge, just take its corner and nick the small area from the margins to the curved cuts. You’re just taking a small chip out here; but it helps. The cut comes from the margin in toward the previous gouge cuts.

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The beginning of hollowing. It’s quite a scoop, and a quick turn for the gouge.

You can enhance this carving by hollowing the braid with a more deeply curved gouge (mine’s an antique, similar to a #8 in the Swiss numbering system), modeling the overall pattern. To do this, you need to be aware of grain direction. Start at the centerline and cut down to the left, and repeat this all down the line. Then turn around and work up and to the right. The gouge takes quite a turn in each cut – essentially 90° in a very short space. Hollowing the braid really makes it come to life, creating more light and shadow interplay; that’s what all this carving is about.

— Meghan B.

The Sliding Square

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This is an excerpt from “The Woodworker: The Charles H. Hayward Years: Volume I” published by Lost Art Press. 

This type of square was produced originally for engineers, but woodworkers have come to realise that it can be very handy to them. Of course the high precision tool needed for engineering is extremely expensive, but a low cost square of sufficient accuracy for woodwork is available, and this article deals with some of its advantages.

It will be seen that the blade of the square is separate from the stock, and is free to slide to give any required amount of projection. It is fixed by means of the small thumb screw. The advantage of this is that it becomes two squares in one. Every practical man knows that, whereas the 12 in. square is necessary for larger work, the 6 in. size is handier for general bench work. Thus, in the ordinary way the square is used with about 6 in. projection as in Fig. 1. When wanted for larger jobs it is merely a matter of sliding it along.

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It can be used equally well for mitres as shown in Fig. 2. For this it has not the same usefulness as the set mitre because it can be used for the acute angle only, not the obtuse one, but it is suitable for the majority of jobs.

Apart from its general bench handiness, however, it can be used for purposes for which the ordinary square would be useless. Suppose you have to work a large rebate. How would you test it to see that it is square? The ordinary square could not be used because the blade projects too far. By giving the blade of the engineer’s square projection slightly less than the rebate width it can be used to test as shown in Fig. 3. In the same way if lines have to be squared across a rebate the square can be used as shown in Fig. 4. The advantage is that the butt of the square rests on the edge of the wood, not the bottom of the rebate. It might be that the rebate is tapered, and in this case the only way of marking a square line would be to work from the edge, not the rebate. This is made clear in Fig. 4 (inset).

The square can be obtained with or without a spirit level. Fig. 5 shows it in use to test a horizontal surface. The blade is either pushed in level or withdrawn entirely. For testing the vertically of a post or whatever it might be the square is held as in Fig. 6, the blade resting against the post. As a still further use, the blade of the square is marked out as a rule.

— Meghan B.

Building the Seat of a Cardigan Chair

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This is an excerpt from “Welsh Stick Chairs” by John Brown. 

Having cut out the seat, the first job is to clean up the sawn edge. Here is a wooden jack-plane in use. I very rarely buy new tools. They are expensive and mostly made of cheese. A plane like the one I am using costs about £10, and the blades are thicker and made of much superior steel, either cast or laminated. Put an edge on that and it will last several times longer than a new iron for a modem plane. There are many good dealers who sell old tools. I often find interesting items on market stalls.

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Having cleaned the seat up, I have to decide which is the top and bottom. Only experience can tell me this. What I am trying to do is get a good ‘picture’ on the completed seat, a nice grain pattern. As it has to be scalloped out, this is not always easy to tell. I mark the top and bottom with a pencil line 2″ from the edge. The marker gauge is a simple oak tool that one of my sons made many years ago.

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A sculptor’s adze in use to ‘bottom’ the seat. This is not a traditional way of doing this. I have and can use the full size gutter adze. However, if you look at the average dining-chair seat you will notice very gradual curves and probably a maximum depth of 1/2″, possibly only 3/8″. I like to cut in from my pencil line at a much sharper angle, and by using a small adze I can more easily control this. Also, I leave less to do with the finishing tools.

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The small adze has a curve across the blade. It is used across the grain, and several passes must be made to achieve the right depth. All wood of the same species varies. An oak on a hill, in a valley, parkland oak, oak grown in windy conditions; they are all a bit different. None varies more then elm. Even a different part of the same tree can have totally different characteristics. I recall sailors talking about a ‘soldiers’ wind – blows both ways at once. Well, the grain in elm is similar. This is a nice piece and is behaving well.

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Chamfering the underside of the seat. This is one of the ways of taking the chunkiness out of the seat. Sometimes I round the bottom, some chairs I leave the edge at its original thickness, just taking off the arras top and bottom. All this is purely for appearance, and I go through phases, sometimes favouring one way, sometimes another. I have to do this part after chopping as otherwise the seat is difficult to hold in the vice.

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I screw a block of wood under the seat to hold it in the vice. The tool I am using here is a small ‘round both ways’ plane with handles. This again is a home-made tool. Chair-makers traditionally used travishers. Travishers are very hard to come by. I suspect this is because most of them are hanging neatly on the walls of the High Wycombe chair museum, or, because of their scarcity, are in collections. I abhor this situation; tools are for use. On the three visits I have made to the chair museum at Wycombe, I have been the only visitor, and I stand with mouth watering looking at literally dozens and dozens of travishers. Such is life. My tool works well, however.

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The next stage in smoothing the seat. This is a scorp. It’s a drawknife bent to a semi-circle and is really a cooper’s tool. The scorp has a bevel on the outside, so it is reasonably easy to grind and sharpen. I find that for this work an engineer’s vice bolted on top of the bench is essential. All the work is at a reasonable height, and my back does not suffer. I line the jaws with wooden blocks, and there is hardly a job in chair-making in which I do not use this vice.

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I decided to put a bead around this seat. I don’t know why. It was quite unnecessary. I am using a block of wood with a screw protruding about 3/8″. The edges of the screw head are filed sharp. Of 400 or so chairs I have built I have perhaps beaded a dozen. On this chair it looks alright, but it would have been just as alright without it. There’s a lesson here somewhere.

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God forbid that I should ever have a fire in the workshop, but if I did, and had to get out in a hurry, I’d make sure my dumbscrape was in my pocket. This is a magical tool. Called a cabinet scraper in the tool catalogues, it is sharpened to have a wire edge with a burnisher of hard steel. It cuts like a plane – see the curly shavings on this seat. When they come from the shop they are oblong, square-sided. For this kind of work the edges need grinding to a gentle curve. It is a most pleasing business using a scraper.

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Ah, man’s vanity! This is the signature I put on all my work. I did it. Well, I did part of it. I have a partner – the Great Chair-maker – so I put a cross, as we Celtic people see it. There is no point in smoothing the underside of the chair. It does not show unless the chair is turned upside down, and working with hand-tools only, one tends not to spend time on unnecessary things.

— Meghan B.

On Craftsmanship

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This is an excerpt from “Shaker Inspiration: Five Decades of Fine Craftsmanship” by Christian Becksvoort. 

Craftsmanship is a tough concept to get your head around. Even the dictionary gives it short shrift. “Skill in a particular craft.” Pretty lame. This is a bit better: “The quality of design and work shown in something made by hand; artistry.” Much closer. I guess it’s one of those abstract impressions that’s hard to define, but you know when you see it. It has to do with skill, accuracy, artistry, expertise, technique, workmanship and sometimes even design. That’s thanks to a hunt through the thesaurus. What all those words have in common is a connection to the human hand and heart. That, I think, reiterates the notion of practice stated in Chapter 2: Do anything long enough and you become good at it. You develop and become proficient at craftsmanship.

I think that brings up the very important notion of standards. What are your standards when building a desk, cutting dovetails or finishing? Chances are that your standards are not mine. We all strive for a different benchmark. I once worked for a fellow whose idea of a finished piece of furniture was anything sanded to #100 grit. He’d become frustrated and pass it off to someone else to complete the sanding process. Let me tell you what a pain it is to sand a piece that is already assembled. In my shop, I generally sand to #400 or #600 grit, depending on the wood and the surface. Yet other woodworkers will insist on sanding to #1,200, while some insist that #200 is smooth enough and you can’t feel the difference. It gets waxed, anyway. The reason I go to #400 or more is that figured cherry sanded to #200 or less appears as “blotchy,” while sanding to #400, #500 or #600 shines the wood and really pops out the grain, so it looks like tiger’s eye when viewed from different directions. When sanding, I work my way up through the grits from #120, #150, #180, #220, #320 and #400, then polish with #0000 steel wool. I start with each grit on an orbital sander, then hand-sand with that same grit to remove swirls. When completed, there will be no swirls, and the surface will be smooth and polished to reflect light. If it looks good and feels good, it is good. Would sanding through to #1,200 make a difference? I’m not sure that a discerning individual could tell the difference. Is that extra little bit worth the added time it would take? That depends on your definition of perfection, your standards.

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Cherry sanded only to #180 or #220 grit looks blotchy.

Some folks prefer handplaning to sanding. I have no argument with that. I, too, prefer it when possible. Handplaning may be a bit more difficult, but if done right yields a smooth reflective surface. If you experience tear-out, either your plane is dull or your technique needs upgrading.

But in some instances, sanding is preferable – for example, dovetailed drawer sides. Block planes with low angles are perfect for the end grain of pins and tails. If, however, the flat grain is figured or goes downhill, the block plane will tear it to shreds. So you go for a high-angle smoother, right? It will work wonders on the figured flat grain, but tear your end-grain pins and tails to shreds. Ever try to plane between the pins and stop exactly at the half-blind front? I’m not saying it’s impossible, just frustrating and time-consuming. Sometimes the sander is faster and more efficient, no matter which way the grain runs. To me, it’s a job to be done to perfection, not therapy.

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A higher sanding grit reflects light better and shows the chatoyance of undulating grain. When viewed from side to side, dark areas become light, and light areas become dark. A little extra effort really pays off visually.

I don’t sand every surface to a high polish. The bottoms of cabinets and the undersides of my tables are smooth to the touch, but those get sanded only to #220 grit. That’s not to say I try to cut corners; rather, I try to work efficiently. My prices are pretty dear, and adding 10 or 20 percent more time to an already time-consuming project begs the question, “When do you quit?” To put it more precisely, I try to put my efforts where they will show and have the most impact.

I guess that everyone’s standards are different. That’s why I don’t have employees. I know of one woodworker who in fact does sand to #1,200 grit. Honestly, I can’t see or feel the difference between #600 and #1,200. How much time do you want to spend to achieve perfection? If your piece is 99.9 percent perfect, is it worth another three or four hours to get to 99.99 percent perfection? Who decides? Of course if time is not an issue, then it’s a moot point. I’ll go into this a bit more in Chapter 7.

On the other end of the spectrum are the historical purists, who insist on building the way some craftsmen in the 18th and 19th century worked. One woodworker stated that historical mistakes were fine to be reproduced. “I prefer to go with what was original. The panel may crack a little, but as they say here in Maine, ‘it won’t bother.’ It’s normal to see modest splits in the sides of period case work…” Really? I know for a fact that doesn’t jive with the Shaker work ethic. Some of those cracked antiques were most likely built by those who didn’t know any better. Not only that, but they didn’t have to deal with forced-air heat. Why would you build a piece knowing full well it was going to crack? I like to think that we learn from our mistakes, as well as the mistakes of others, and hence improve. I don’t think that any craftsman working for a living 100 or 200 years ago would consciously build in a fashion that he knew full well would fail. That’s not my idea of old-fashioned craftsmanship – but as I stated, everyone is entitled to set their own standards and opinions.

— Meghan B.