Richard recently finished reading David’s book, and wrote a review, which he posted on several woodworking forums. He writes:
” … The book is, listed here in no particular order, a mixture of biography, philosophical musings, design methodology built upon an artistic background, drawing as a means to express ideas and develop a personal library of forms, practical methods of working wood, client relations, tying up of loose ends, and so on. He is at turns chatty, reflective, opinionated, and explanatory, has his own way of working, generous to those that have helped or worked with him, and acknowledge his influences.”
And: ” … Do I agree with everything he says? No. Nor will most readers I suspect. On the other hand, he’s not afraid to say it as he sees it, and if you are challenged from time to time, which I was as a relatively experienced (but not well known) furniture designer maker it’s an opportunity to reflect and to evaluate what he says to see if he might be right, and I might be wrong, or vice-versa. If you are fairly new to the subject but possess a desire to develop your own point of view and philosophy, here is a book, along with other sources of information of course, that I think would be beneficial to read.”
You can read the entire review online at UKWorkshop (here) and WoodCentral (here).
You can read more about David’s book here, and more about Richard’s book here.
It began with a walnut desk that had been commissioned by a London architect friend. This was a prestige job for a building conversion in London’s Covent Garden. It was right on the Piazza – a prime spot. My desk was to fit diagonally across the reception area. Malcolm and I worked and worked to get this spot-on. Table delivered, everyone delighted, craftsmen paid.
A few weeks later I get a call: “The building has been sold. The new owners don’t want your table, so it has been taken by the managing director of the developing company for his Dorset house. We suggest you get in touch with Derek’s wife, Mary.”
WHAAAAT!!!!…. I hated this. Malcolm and I had made this table for a specific place in the centre of London. Now it was going into some rich dude’s country house – a disaster I sulked over for days. It turned into something unexpected.
Getting hold of Mary Parkes was not easy, and I didn’t really want to do it. Making the phone call took me ages. When I did talk to her it was, “Oh I love your table! We are restoring a house in Dorset and we have put it there. We need some special dining furniture. Can you help us?”
I remember feeling extremely scared before I met Mary. I went trembling to a very smart address just off the Kings Road in West London. I came with some draft ideas of chairs and tables. Derek arrived later; he was genial and friendly and very much the worse for a few drinks. We settled nothing but agreed to meet at their Dorset house sometime later.
When we met again, Derek was on great form. He spent a whole morning showing me around a wonderful old house. He proudly showed me some of the restoration work. It was incredibly expensive but almost invisible. Derek took great pride and pleasure in what he was able to do to restore that beautiful old house. He introduced me to the gardeners and household staff; he knew each by name and knew about their families and children. This man was operating socially on a completely different plane to the rest of us. To me, he was amazing; I was bowled over. He liked making things, and enabling things to be made.
Mary and I worked on her ideas. Derek wanted chairs in which he “could have a great dinner party, consume a bottle of claret and not damage himself falling out of the chair.” I remember Mary doing sketches of chair backs that I recognised from chairs in the Doge’s Palace in Venice. I picked that up and developed it.
We made a table in solid English cherry and a set of chairs. It was the biggest job I had ever done. I remember Malcolm and Neil sweating blood over it. Mary wanted holly and dyed blue veneer details to match her fabrics.
“We can do that,” I said with complete conviction and total ignorance. We would find a way.
We delivered the pieces, the bill was paid and the client was happy. I brought over my photographer, John Gollop, to take a shot of the pieces in location. John did that, then did something that was to me extraordinary. He picked up a chair, carried it into the next room and put it in front of a full-length window. There was a huge potted plant behind it. The photo he took changed everything.
Derek and Mary were happy if I made versions of their chairs. I thought I might make two or three. John’s photo and versions of it were in every glossy magazine for what seemed like months – the 1980s equivalent of going viral. It was an early confirmation of what furniture maker Garry Knox Bennett much later told me: “Dave, we are all in a giant photographic competition.”
We were making these damn chairs in various timbers for clients all over the country for the next few years. But more important, it told me that I could do this: I could talk with people, nice people, such as Mary and Derek Parkes, and come back with ideas for furniture that would make their homes better places to live. I could listen to what they wanted and translate that into an image that fitted them like a good suit of clothes.
Thankfully, I was a good listener; the stammer had taught me that. The first quality of a designer is to be a good listener, to take the brief and hear what is not always said. Then take the idea back to the workshop and make it. The making would be done without compromise; we would make as well as we could. Mary and Derek hadn’t quibbled over price; they wanted something special – something like the house they were living in, something new but worthy of the place. IKEA wouldn’t quite work here. The idea of “designing for clients” came directly from this job.
When I met Derek again nearly 30 years later, he was still at Blackdown House. His life has become a tribute to a wonderful English country house. We made another piece for the same room. I love that – do the job well enough and you will be working for a small group of clients for 40 years. They will always want you to make another piece.
Today I received my copies of David Savage’s “The Intelligent Hand,” and I was so relieved I thought I might cry.
This has been one of the most emotional projects I’ve worked on. Apologies for discarding the veneer of normal blogging communication, but this book has been a crap-tastic lightning rod for this entire cruddy year.
When my father died in February, I was crushed for many reasons. We had so many plans for things we were going to do together – take a carving class with Peter Follansbee, visit St. Petersburg and finally master bread-making.
A few months after my dad died, we lost Jennie Alexander. The future of a project we had worked on for five years – the third edition of “Make a Chair From a Tree” – was thrown to the lawyers.
So when I dove into editing and designing “The Intelligent Hand,” I was hell bent on getting it published before cancer claimed David. And I wanted to equal David’s effort. He gave us everything – his original watercolors, his archive of photos and a manuscript that ripped my heart open. The design and editing had to match it.
Luckily, I had Megan Fitzpatrick to help me. We’ve worked together so long that she knows exactly how little I will compromise. And so she is as pigheaded as I am when it comes to making things look right and read right. And she knows when to say: %$&* it.
Our warehouse has begun shipping “The Intelligent Hand,” and if you ordered a copy through our website, you should have your copy soon. It’s not perfect. We compressed a year of editing and design work into about three months. But it is good. Damn good.
“The Intelligent Hand” is entering the final stages of print production at the plant in Tennessee and we are on track to ship the book in mid-October.
Until the book ships, we are offering all customers who purchase the book a free pdf download of the entire book at checkout. The pdf is hi-resolution and searchable. Even if you don’t enjoy reading books on a screen (and I do not), the pdf is handy for taking along on a trip or for searching.
Also, like all our digital products, we offer it without DRM (digital rights management). So you can easily integrate it into your personal library without passwords or having to be connected to the internet when you read it.
As of now, the hardcover book and pdf cost $50. When the book ships, the price for the book plus the pdf will be $62.50.
For those who might be unsure if this book is their cup of tea/coffee/Red Bull, we offer this hi-resolution excerpt of the first section of the book. It’s short, but will give you a good taste of what this book is about. It is, by the way, a massive book – 302 pages – and a visual treat of photos, line drawings, watercolors and historical images. Click the link below, and the download will begin:
Because of my deep personal interest in this book, I was the art director and page designer for this title. As David poured his heart into the text, I went all out with the images and page design to create something I am (and I rarely say this) particularly happy with.
This is a tricky topic to discuss. Good teaching can resemble abuse – at least from the outside. But I don’t think that good teachers ever actually abuse their students. Instead, I found that my best teachers were both scrupulously fair and uncompromising. For me, as a student, that was the combination that worked.
During my first year at Popular Woodworking, I spent every free moment in the workshop. I’d blast through my editing duties during the morning, and by lunchtime I’d be helping out the other staff or working on my own projects. Jim Stuard, one of the junior editors at the magazine, was a long-time professional woodworker and had excellent hand skills. He was always in the shop. Naturally, I latched onto him like a puppy.
Jim took teaching seriously and imitated his German masters when it came to doling out instruction. When I screwed up, he yelled “You’re fired!” and would walk away. This happened almost every day. He wasn’t a fan of answering my 100 questions about why something was. He was just there to show me how to do it. How to get through the day.
And occasionally, he was there to open my eyes.
There are a few points in the craft where you feel like you have turned a corner. Jim offered me my first corner. I was cleaning up the edge of a circular Arts & Crafts tabouret, and Jim came over to watch my progress. I did my best, but Jim rolled his eyes, sighed and pushed me aside.
“See these?” he said, pointing to some machine marks I had completely missed. “These have to go.” He cleaned up one quadrant of the tabletop and put the scraper down.
“Do that,” he said. “That’s craftsmanship.”
I was grateful that he didn’t “fire” me that day. That tense exchange unlocked a keen awareness and sensitivity to surfaces that has only become stronger and more refined every year. That day started me down that path, and I am forever grateful for the kick in the pants.
Why am I telling you this?
When I spent my two weeks at the Rowden Workshops run by David Savage, I was delighted to see that same sort of teaching style in evidence. The students were tasked with the impossible: Please do the work of a high-level professional. Right now. Right here. If they failed, they had to try again. David, like all good shop owners, was always there at the worst possible moment when you had really mucked something up. His staff was there to guide you to the solution.
I got to eat several meals with the students and listened to their begrudging admiration of the whole process. They were grumpy because they were always on notice. They were stressed because their work was constantly being evaluated. And they were wondering if the whole experience at Rowden was worth it – because we should all question our sanity at trying to make money at woodworking.
I thought about telling the students that they would get some perspective in time. They would see how much better they had become compared to other young woodworkers. But that’s like telling a teenager that life is short. They simply aren’t ready to receive the message. So why bother?
So I just listened.
If you would like a dose of this hard truth, salted with failure and seared with difficult trials, I recommend “The Intelligent Hand” to you. This book by David Savage contains the core ideals from Rowden, but without the hard looks or the glorious teatime. The print version will be released in mid-October. If you order it now, you will receive a pdf of the book (for free) at checkout.
Several friends who have read the book have sent me private messages, such as this one:
I opened up David’s book last night about 11:00 to take a quick look. Could not put it down til I got maybe 40 pages in. It may not appeal to everyone (though I think it will to most people) – but it is ***** awesome. My initial opinions are always tentative, but this is on a very very short list of best overall books on craft that I’ve ever opened.
Seriously. It is incredible.
I can’t let myself open it back up til things settle here, because it’s a total black hole for my attention. But it really is the book I wish I could have written in another 20 years or so. I met and liked David briefly last year – but I can understand exactly why you’re so taken with him. I truly cannot praise it enough. For ME, this is in the three or four best things LAP has done.
Also, like all our digital products, we offer it without DRM (digital rights management). So you can easily integrate it into your personal library without passwords or having to be connected to the internet when you read it.
