Every woodworking class degrades into the same intense discussion: Does the hegemony of mass advertising result in a degradation of the circle of the manual arts?
Nah, I’m just pulling your chain. It’s mostly fart jokes and talks about anatomy.
This week was special. Not only did we get some humorous attempts to light our flatulence, we also experienced Hans Muller’s special skill.
Hans, a student in the class and the shop tech at Rosewood Studios, is one-quarter Austrian and the rest of his blood is “German.” And so he channeled his ancestors to teach us a little woodworking.
One of the most important things I’ve ever heard about woodworking was said to my by John Economaki, the founder of Bridge City Tools. When he said it, I couldn’t write it down – we were in a car, I think. But I can pretty well paraphrase it.
When I teach a class on design I ask the students this question: Would you rather build a project that is beautifully proportioned with a few gappy joints, or a technically flawless piece with a design that is just OK?
The students unanimously answer: technically flawless.
When you look at traditional furniture, you can see that this was not the general attitude among pre-industrial makers. Even in spectacular Shaker pieces and world-class objects I’ve examined at Winterthur, the emphasis is more on overall form than on technical brilliance.
Baselines are overcut. The backs and bottoms of drawers look like they came from an Arkansas outhouse. There is tear-out. There are distinct toolmarks – if you know where to look.
But when you back away from your inspection of the joinery, you can see the brilliance of the maker.
When I teach classes on woodworking, I fully realize that I am part of this problem. During my week here at Rosewood Studio we have all been focused on the joinery. Perhaps too much. What is more amazing than the tight joints, however, are the nine perfectly proportioned tool chests that are coming into the world.
This chest isn’t my design – it’s the design of hundreds of woodworkers through three hundred years of work. I only hope that the students can see this when they pull their chest out of their car at home.
One of the earliest photographs I’ve ever seen of a carpenter at work is held by the Metropolitan Museum of Art and attributed to William Henry Fox Talbot, a British inventor and early photographer.
Jeff Burks, who pointed me to the image, suspects it might be the earliest photograph of a carpenter/joiner. If you know of an earlier one, send us a note.
Of note in the photograph:
1. These early “calotypes” were staged because the exposure time could be extremely long (by modern standards). Hence the blurry face of the carpenter. The apprentice, however, held quite still. Because of the staging, I wouldn’t make too much of the workholding method (“Here boy, hold this board”).
2. This photo clearly answers a burning question: Should you store a plane on its side or on its sole? The answer: On its toe.
3. It’s nice to see the traditional three-finger grip on the saw’s tote. The saw looks fairly aggressive, more like a ripsaw, to me.
In any case, be sure to visit the Met’s site and zoom around the photo. There are some nice details. However, I wish it were a daguerreotype.
In college and graduate school, I sneaked in as many film theory classes as possible without upsetting my journalism advisers. One of my favorite areas of study: German expressionism, where the outward appearance of a character reflects their inner nature. (See: “The Cabinet of Dr. Calgari.”)
So I’ve always been fascinated by drawings that reflect this aesthetic, and in the 19th century there were many portraits made of craftsmen that depicted them as being made from their tools.
Perpetual researcher Jeff Burks turned up these 10 portraits for your enjoyment. Not much is known about them. Here are some details:
Ten fantastical portraits of tradesmen.
Blacksmith – Le Forgeron.
Joiner – Le Menuisier.
Musician – Le Musicien.
Fisherman – Le Pêcheur.
Fruitiere – La Fruitière.
Tailor – Le Tailleur.
Barber – Le Perruquier.
Florist – La Bouquetière.
The Writer – L’Ecrivain.
Armourer – L’Armurier.
[n.d., c.1820.]
10 coloured aquatints, very scarce. Each sheet c. 260 x 120mm, 10¼ x 4¾”. Trimmed for inclusion in a scrapbook, signs of wear.
I have to say the one of the writer is creepy. But at least I’m not made out of fish.
The thing I like best about teaching woodworking is getting to meet students, some of which become lifelong friends or colleagues.
One of my favorite students from the last 10 years is Jonas Jensen of Mors, Denmark. He and his father were in my very first tool chest class at Dictum in Bavaria. Neither had any place being there. Jonas’s father had been a woodworking instructor for his career; Jonas had enough hand skills to teach the class.
After some pestering from blogger Brian Eve of Toolerable – who also was in that tool chest class – Jonas started a blog. And it’s great fun. It’s all about the stuff he builds on his farm with his three kids and their adventures in the shop.
His blog is called Mulesaw, and I definitely recommend you add it to your list of blogs to follow.
To get an introduction to his blog, check out his 13 posts about building a sea chest while on board a ship (Jonas is a Marine engineer). Limited by the tools, workholding and hardware on board, he made an awesome little chest by hand while sailing in pirate-infested waters. You can read that thread here.
