I have a student who can’t make the Anarchist’s Tool Chest class that begins tomorrow morning (Aug. 2) at 9 a.m. If you’re local (or want to drive overnight) and want to join the class, send me an email: fitz@lostartpress.com. You can read more about the class here.
— Fitz
Katherine has cooked up another big batch of Soft Wax 2.0, a safe and beautiful finish that I use on all my chairs and much of my casework. It is available for sale in her etsy store.
Katherine makes the wax in our machine room using a waterless process and then packages it in durable glass jars with coated metal lids. The result: no rust or discoloration.
As always, Katherine has Bean the Shop Cat by her side. Here he is playing with his new (thank you, Megan) scratching post. This is not the most flattering photo of the poor boy, but….
Instructions for Soft Wax 2.0
Soft Wax 2.0 is a safe finish for bare wood that is incredibly easy to apply and imparts a beautiful low luster to the wood.
The finish is made by cooking raw, organic linseed oil (from the flax plant) and combining it with cosmetics-grade beeswax and a small amount of a citrus-based solvent. The result is that this finish can be applied without special safety equipment, such as a respirator. The only safety caution is to dry the rags out flat you used to apply before throwing them away. (All linseed oil generates heat as it cures, and there is a small but real chance of the rags catching fire if they are bunched up while wet.)
Soft Wax 2.0 is an ideal finish for pieces that will be touched a lot, such as chairs, turned objects and spoons. The finish does not build a film, so the wood feels like wood – not plastic. Because of this, the wax does not provide a strong barrier against water or alcohol. If you use it on countertops or a kitchen table, you will need to touch it up every once in a while. Simply add a little more Soft Wax to a deteriorated finish and the repair is done – no stripping or additional chemicals needed.
Soft Wax 2.0 is not intended to be used over a film finish (such as lacquer, shellac or varnish). It is best used on bare wood. However, you can apply it over a porous finish, such as milk paint.
APPLICATION INSTRUCTIONS (VERY IMPORTANT): Applying Soft Wax 2.0 is so easy if you follow the simple instructions. On bare wood, apply a thin coat of soft wax using a rag, applicator pad, 3M gray pad or steel wool. Allow the finish to soak in about 15 minutes. Then, with a clean rag or towel, wipe the entire surface until it feels dry. Do not leave any excess finish on the surface. If you do leave some behind, the wood will get gummy and sticky.
The finish will be dry enough to use in a couple hours. After a couple weeks, the oil will be fully cured. After that, you can add a second coat (or not). A second coat will add more sheen and a little more protection to the wood.
Soft Wax 2.0 is made in small batches in Kentucky using a waterless process. Each glass jar contains 8 oz. of soft wax, enough for two chairs.
The following is excerpted from Vol. I of “The Woodworker: The Charles H. Hayward Years: Tools.” As editor of The Woodworker magazine from 1939 to 1967, Hayward oversaw the transformation of the craft from one that was almost entirely hand-tool based to a time where machines were common, inexpensive and had displaced the handplanes, chisels and backsaws of Hayward’s training and youth.
This massive project – five books in total – seeks to reprint a small part of the information Hayward published in The Woodworker during his time as editor in chief. This is information that hasn’t been seen or read in decades. No matter where you are in the craft, from a complete novice to a professional, you will find information here you cannot get anywhere else.
We have culled, organized, scanned, edited and re-edited these articles to create these hardbound volumes. This is not simply a quick reprint of old magazines. We have reset all of the type. We have scanned and cleaned every image (there are more than 2,000 drawings and photos). The entire project took hundreds of hours and a dozen people all over the country.
The first volume is on tools, and includes: Sharpening; Setting Out Tools & Chisels; Planes; Saws; Boring Tools; Carving; Turning; Veneering & Inlay.
There are three general classes of saws; hand-saws, back-saws, and those for cutting curves. The first, with the use of which we are concerned here, are for the preliminary cutting up of timber and for the larger joints, and at least one is essential in the kit.
Features of the Handsaw. A saw which will cut fairly rapidly without badly tearing out the grain, and one which can be used for cutting both across and with the grain, is desirable because it can be used for so many purposes. Choose one about 22 in. long (that is the blade length measured along the teeth) and having, say, 10 points to the inch. The latter detail refers to the size of the teeth and means the number of tooth points in an inch including those at both ends. In Fig. 2, for instance, there are 10 points to the inch. Many saws have the number stamped on the blade near the handle. If you propose to do mostly carpentry as distinct from furniture making you can gain a little in cutting speed at the sacrifice of fine cutting by choosing a saw with larger teeth, say 8 points.
Make sure that it is a cross-cut saw you get, not a rip-saw. There is an important difference between the sharpening of the two which affects the cutting. The cross-cut can be used for any sort of cutting, whereas the rip-saw is confined to sawing with the grain. It is a good plan too to choose a taper-ground-saw. It means that the blade has a natural clearance in the kerf it makes since it is slightly thinner at the back than at the toothed edge. Even with this refinement, however, a saw would jam in its kerf unless the teeth were given what is known as set. This is the slight bending over of the teeth in alternate directions so that, as the saw cuts through the wood, it makes a cut (kerf it is usually called) slightly wider than the thickness of its blade. Of course, this means that the resistance is slightly greater in that the saw has had to remove more wood in sawdust, but this is mostly offset by the reduced friction of the blade in the kerf. It does mean, however, that the taper-ground-saw has a definite advantage in that the set can be less owing to the natural clearance of the blade.
Using the Saw. Sawing is done on trestles, on the bench, or in the vice. In the first the wood is usually steadied by pressure from the knee, whilst for bench sawing the usual plan is to cramp down the wood. This is really important because it is impossible to saw properly if the wood is jumping about. Here then is a first essential. If you cannot hold the wood steady, fix it down with a cramp.
Square Sawing. Perhaps the chief difficulty that besets the beginner is that of square sawing, and this is entirely a matter of knowing when the saw is upright and of keeping it so throughout its stroke. If the cut is not square it means that at best there will be a lot of wood to trim away, and at worst the wood may be too small owing to its have been undercut. For a start place a trysquare on the bench against the blade and endeavour to keep the blade in line with it as at A, Fig. 3. We have known a case of a man, determined to cure a fault of sawing out of square, who stood a large mirror in front of himself and glanced at it occasionally to see whether the saw was upright. This is not usually practicable, but whatever method you use endeavour to get the feel of when the saw is upright. Put the square on the wood and hold the saw against it perfectly upright. Note and try to register your position. Move the saw into various positions in its stroke and again note your attitude. After a time you will no longer need to use the square as a guide, but even so, test the sawn edge afterwards to see whether you have any special bias, and endeavour to correct the fault.
Straight Sawing. A common experience for a beginner is to find that the saw is either drifting away from or bearing towards the line along which he is sawing. He tries to put things right by twisting the handle (C, Fig. 3), and, after a few strokes finds that the saw is bearing the opposite way, and so it goes on until the end of the cut, the resulting edge being a long and wavy line as in Fig. 4. Clearly the important thing is to start right with the saw blade parallel with the line.
Now in normal sawing the blade is held so that the line of the teeth makes about 45 degrees with the wood, as at A, Fig. 5. This makes it a little difficult to judge whether the blade is in alignment with the line, because when the saw is low the handle does not extend far enough along the line to enable you to judge the matter, and when it is high the handle is so far above the line that it is just as difficult. The best plan is to start the cut with the saw held at a very low angle as at B, Fig. 5. Then, if the toe of the saw is used to start the cut the handle will extend a long way along the line and it will be low. Once a reasonable start has been made the saw can assume the normal 45 degrees. If you start right there is no reason why you should not keep right—assuming that the saw is in order.
Bad sharpening can cause drifting, but the drift will always be in the same direction. It may be due to unequal setting, to the saw having been sharpened from the same side throughout, to one side having been caught on a nail, or to the blade being buckled. Do not try to cure it yourself. Take it to a proper sharpener and explain what happens. He will know what to do. Sharpening and the correction of faults is a skilled operation calling for experience.
General Sawing. Assume that you are going to saw along a board, the latter held on trestles or boxes. Start the saw at a low angle as already suggested and give a few short strokes, the blade bearing against the thumb of the left hand to steady it as shown in Fig. 1. This enables the saw to make a start in the right place. As the blade cuts more deeply into the wood you can gradually change the position of the handle so that the blade makes about 45 degrees with the wood, and the short starting strokes can be changed to long ones embracing nearly the whole length of the saw. Note from Fig. 1 how the index finger of the right hand points along the blade. This is a great aid to control and applies to almost every saw. Keep the left hand with either the thumb or side of the finger bearing against the blade until the saw has cut a fair way into the wood—say about the width of its blade. Apart from steadying it at the start it helps to prevent an injury in the event of the blade jumping from the kerf. If the left hand is merely held at the edge away from the saw the latter might jump out and jar the hand.
Don’t force the blade. Keep it moving steadily in long, even strokes with light or moderate pressure. It used to be taught to apprentices that a saw should cut merely by its own weight, and the underlying idea that forcing must be avoided is sound; but you need something rather more positive than this. Give just enough pressure to ensure firm control and you will find that the saw will cut freely. If it doesn’t, it needs sharpening.
In practically every case the saw is used to the side of the line rather than on it. The point is that the line represents the finished size, and the saw cut is made on the waste side to allow for final trimming with the plane. Many men tend to saw well away from the line for fear of making the wood too small. This is natural enough, but it exemplifies the lack of confidence of a man not sure of himself. Learn to cut accurately therefore, and you can then cut close to the line, leaving just enough for trimming.
UPDATE: BOTH ARE SOLD
With “The Stick Chair Book” off to press, I need to clear out the workshop of chairs I built for the book. Most have already gone to customers, but I have two prototypes that I hope to sell.
Both of these chairs are original designs, are signed, sit well and are structurally great. But they have cosmetic defects that have caused me to lower their price significantly.
Walnut Irish(ish) Armchair
This chair is made from local Ohio walnut. The legs and sticks were split out. The arms, seat and backrest were sawn out. The seat height is 14-1/2” off the floor and the backrest is angled at 30°. This chair is designed for lounging, and the seat is lightly saddled. The sticks are all shaved and are slightly faceted.
The chair is assembled with hide glue (for long-term repairability) and finished with a homemade mixture of organic linseed oil and beeswax – so it is easily repaired.
Cosmetic defects: I experimented with some new drill bits on this chair, which cut a slightly oval hole in the arms. This resulted in some small gaps around the tenons, which I filled with a colored wax.
The chair is $800 plus actual shipping costs via common carrier. You can also pick it up, or I will deliver it free within a 100-mile radius of Cincinnati.
Six-stick Comb-back Chair
UPDATE: THIS ONE HAS BEEN CLAIMED
This chair is made from a variety of woods that were left over from other chairs I built for the book. The legs and stretchers are made from split oak. The seat is maple. The sticks and comb are cherry. The arms are poplar. The reason this chair is discounted is that I experimented with a radical back angle (25°). As a result, it sits fantastic, but looks a little angular to my eye. Structurally perfect.
The seat height is 17” off the floor with an overall height of 41”. This chair is designed for lounging. The chair is assembled with hide glue (for long-term repairability) and is finished with an acrylic paint (“Lamp Black” by General Finishes).
The chair is $800 plus actual shipping costs via common carrier. You can also pick it up, or I will deliver it free within a 100-mile radius of Cincinnati.
How to Buy One
If you want to purchase one of these chairs, send an email to fitz@lostartpress.com. I am happy to answer any and all questions, but the first person who says “I’ll take it” gets it.
— Christopher Schwarz
After a small flurry of emails this past weekend related to the dust jacket in which Nancy, Christopher, Megan and I discussed word choice, the number of lines, the space between “Shop” and “Tails” and more, “Shop Tails” is now at the printer.
Makers, whether of a dust jacket, a book, a spoon or a kitchen, tend to eschew materialism, or, at least certain types of materialism. And yet we make material goods. As Nancy writes below, the “things vs people” dichotomy can be false and destructive, and that holds true whether you’re talking about a person on a factory production line or someone working in a one-person workshop.
In this excerpt from Chapter 11, Winnie (1996-2010), Nancy addresses the concept of materialism, and suggests considering a new way of looking at objects – appreciating how things embody important characteristics of their makers, as well as memorialize others.
— Kara Gebhart Uhl
When Winnie, William, Lizzie, Tom and I officially moved into the house next to my shop in the winter of 2004-2005, I kept the dogs confined to the laundry room and kitchen instead of giving them free run of the house. Not only was I loath to see any repeat of the destruction at my bungalow in town; I had begun laying the hickory floors in my spare time, and it was an unimaginably slow job, done on my hands and knees.
Alan had kindly loaned me a flooring nailer. It was the manual type you whack with a dead-blow mallet. I tried it repeatedly, but the hickory was so hard it just bent the nails. Once a nail was bent, it was far more time-consuming to remove from the dense wood than it would have been to drive by hand. A pneumatic nailer might have done the trick, but I didn’t have one, so I bought several pounds of large finish nails and recalibrated my expectations. I had to pre-drill the tongue of each board about every 18 inches along its length to keep it from splitting. I drove the nails with a hammer and finished with a nail set. It took a week of spare time to lay the floor in the 13 x 18-foot living room, but as I watched the hickory spread slowly across the OSB subfloor, I was thrilled by the transformation in my surroundings.
After the living room I moved down the hall to the bedrooms, then hired my friend John Hewett to sand the floors. I applied two coats of Waterlox Original tung oil just before driving to Florida with a kitchen full of cabinets for Maggie and her husband – the tung oil was so heavy on the solvent that I didn’t want to be in the house while it cured.
Considering how much work the floors took, I was not about to see them scratched up by the dogs’ claws, so I decided to confine them to the kitchen and laundry room, rather than allowing them the run of the house.
***
Every so often someone complains that I’m too protective of material artifacts, whether the floors in my house, the top of our kitchen table or the quilt made by our friend Kim, a gift when Mark and I were married – “Use the delicate cycle! Those are Kim’s hand-sewn stitches!” These criticisms, which are often veiled, pit things against people (or things against dogs, in the case of my floors), implying that I value the former over the latter.
I get it. When I was around 10, Esse, gave me a melodica, a hybrid between a wind instrument and a keyboard. You blew into a mouthpiece, pressing keys to produce different notes. The resulting sound struck me as artificial, and the instrument itself was mostly made of plastic. It didn’t seem like a serious instrument. I had no idea back then that the melodica was good enough for the coolest of professional musicians, like Jon Batiste on “The Late Show with Stephen Colbert.” I was touched that she’d bought it for me, but not that interested in learning to play it.
The gift of the melodica coincided with the influx of hippies living in our yard. From them I learned that attachment to material things was bad. “You gotta let it go, man. Free yourself,” they’d say – not about my melodica, but about other, grown-up things. Their happiness living with few possessions impressed me. I wanted to follow their example. So one Saturday morning, when a couple mentioned they were going to a swap meet to divest themselves of still more possessions, I asked if I could join them. It would be an exercise in renunciation.
I set the melodica down with a bunch of other people’s stuff on a fold-up table in a dusty parking lot cooked by the Florida sun. I think I priced it at $25. Eventually someone haggled me down to $8. The money wasn’t important; what mattered was that I was letting go of another object I didn’t use. I was training myself to avoid attachments. I overrode the pang of guilt as I took the cash – my dear grandma had given the instrument to me – and told myself to grow up. When I told my grandma, she was hurt. “I bought that for you,” she said. “It was a gift.” She wasn’t trying to make me feel bad; she was expressing how she felt. I’ve been troubled by my superficial take on the melodica ever since.
As I thought about that experience over subsequent years, I came to see “things versus people” as a dichotomy that’s false and destructive. You can’t even have things without people; we’re interdependent. People make things, whether they do so on a factory production line or in a one-person workshop. Then other people put them to use. Beyond this, things are more than mute material; they express their makers’ dreams and values. This connection between maker and made object is most visible in artifacts crafted by individual makers to their own designs, or designs they’ve adapted significantly – think Megan Fitzpatrick’s Dutch toolchests, or Danielle Rose Byrd’s bowls. But even anonymous workers on the production line at Toyota or General Electric are expressing their dreams of a good life, albeit less directly, as they cut, weld or assemble parts to other peoples’ designs using tools and equipment they don’t own.
Material artifacts are also repositories of memory. They keep people and places alive. In my office I have a Victorian bamboo étagère, its shelves filled with antique ceramics. The stand and all of its contents – a Dutch urn resembling an antique from Greece; two sugar-and-cream sets from Japan; pitchers and vases from Germany, Romania, England – once stood in the entryway of my friend Peggy’s house, a converted timber-frame barn. She’d bought the barn in pieces and made it into a home filled with character and natural light. I always coveted the pottery collection (and kicked myself for doing so, because it was hers). After Peggy died, her daughter held a barn sale. I bought the shelf and the ceramics – not only because I loved them, but to keep those things together as the Peggy Shepherd Pottery Collection. Peggy lives on in these artifacts, as well as many others in our home: the curvy black metal chair she gave me at Christmas in 1998, the funky painted cabinet a former boyfriend of hers had cobbled together, the beautifully upholstered chair she gave me after I built cabinets for her barn-house kitchen. “You didn’t charge me enough,” she said. “I want you to have this.”
The World War II-era sofa in our living room, which I bought from Peggy many years ago, reminds me to be thankful that we’re not hiding in bomb shelters while subsisting on tinned meat, chicory “coffee” and other rations. The salvaged leaded-glass window I built into our bathroom wall carries forward the legacy of a client’s family home that was demolished as part of an airport expansion. The ceramic model of a terraced house on my office bookshelves reminds me of my first woodworking boss, Raymond, who gave it to me when Patrick and I were married, adding “You’ve always said you want a house of your own.”
When we buy things from those who make them, we not only support those craftspeople, we also do our part to keep craft traditions alive. In the factory-made Arts & Crafts-style cabinet I bought tenth-hand from a back room in a Bloomington grocery store in 1995 lies a silver cheese knife made by Hart Silversmiths in Chipping Campden, England, the lone surviving enterprise from Charles Robert Ashbee’s Guild and School of Handicraft. Mixed in with blue-green ceramics bought at yard sales and junk shops is a vase bought for me by my former husband, Kent, and his wife, Mary, on a visit to the Van Briggle Pottery & Tile. There are small pieces by Ephraim Faience that I purchased at The Omni Grove Park Inn and a Granny Smith green cabinet vase I bought from Scott Draves of Door Pottery in 2015, when we were in neighboring booths at a show in Chicago.
Even mass-produced artifacts deserve more respect than we generally give them, at least in the States. We have a famously materialistic culture in which too few people have more than the most superficial, consumerist understanding of material objects. As Elaine Scarry pointed out in her 1985 book, “The Body in Pain,”
…anonymous, mass-produced objects contain a collective and equally extraordinary message: Whoever you are, and whether or not I personally like or even know you, in at least this one small way, be well…. Whether they reach someone in the extreme conditions of imprisonment or in the benign and ordinary conditions of everyday life, the handkerchief, blanket, and bucket of white paint contain within them the wish for well-being: ‘Don’t cry; be warm; watch now, in a few minutes even these constricting walls will look more spacious.’1
Instead of “things versus people,” it would be more fitting to appreciate how things embody important characteristics of their makers, as well as memorialize others.
The things we live with also shape us in ways we often don’t even see. They impose their own demands on our behavior: We have to learn how to use the new email platform, drain the compressor, grease the sander’s gears, prime the pump. Many things, from the humble kitchen whisk to the thickness planer, bicycle or car, become extensions of our bodies, magnifying our abilities, for better or worse, and sometimes leading us to imagine ourselves more powerful than we are. (All it takes to prove the validity of this statement is a power outage.)
1Scarry, “The Body in Pain” 292.
— Nancy Hiller, author of “Kitchen Think” and “Making Things Work.” Read Nancy Hiller’s profiles, which we call “Little Acorns,” via this link.