I just completed this staked armchair this morning and it will go out to a customer tomorrow (I hope).
When I designed this chair for the revised edition of “The Anarchist’s Design Book,” the goal was to make a staked armchair that was decently good-looking but as easy as possible for a new chairmaker to build.
As a result, many of the details of the chair are based on what sort of material is available to every woodworker. For example: The crest rail – sometimes called the “comb” — is cut from 8/4 solid material. I think it looks quite good as-is, but my typical instinct is to make combs from something thicker or to steam-bend them. But 8/4 material is simple to come by. In fact, the entire chair is built from one board of 8/4 oak and seven dowels.
Yes, the sticks start out as dowels that have been selected for dead-straight grain. Again, dowels are not my first choice when designing a chair, but using them removes a barrier faced by many beginning chairmakers. Beginners might not have access to a shavehorse, lathe with a steadyrest or even rived material. The dowels are scraped and shaved so they have a little entasis, but yeah, they’re dowels.
I’ve now built a bunch of these chairs and have (I hope) made almost all the common mistakes this design presents. So I’m ready to teach classes on how to build it (the first class is in March) and complete the chapter on this chair for “The Anarchist’s Design Book.”
I’m also ready to push this design in a different direction. My sketchbook is clogged with details related to this chair that I have put off as I refined this single form. My next stick chair will be in black walnut and have significant changes to the armbow, doubler, stick arrangement and crest rail. I hope it’s not a complete fiasco. If it is or it’s not, you’ll find out here.
I’m pleased to announce that our first batch of chore coats stitched by Sew Valley are now available for purchase in our online store.
Based on hard-wearing French work garments from the 20th century, our coat is designed and made entirely in the United States. The fabric is a soft cotton drill, a denim material that has a nice woven texture and takes a beating. It’s flexible and breathable as heck – you can wear this in the shop while sawing or planing. Then dust it off, and it’s nice enough to wear to a restaurant with your spouse.
Because this coat was designed by furniture makers, it has details that only a close examination will reveal. The pockets are reinforced to endure years of wear. The buttons are custom made – they’re debossed with “Lost Art Press” (but only you will notice that). And the interior pocket features the only real branding, an embroidered logo featuring a skep.
We offer this jacket only in black, the traditional color worn by joiners, carpenters and cabinetmakers in France. It’s available in sizes from small to 2XL (see our sizing chart for details). If you plan to wear the coat over a T-shirt, order your typical size. If you are going to layer it over other garments, order a size larger than normal.
I typically wear a size large, but I’m wearing a size XL in the photo because I usually wear a T-shirt and collared shirt under it. Also note that we have made the sleeves longer than typical commercial garments because we think most sleeves are skimpy.
These coats were designed by woodworker and clothing designer Tom Bonamici and stitched by Sew Valley in downtown Cincinnati, Ohio. We’re proud to work with these trailblazing individuals who insist that good things can and should be made in this country.
Our coat is $185 plus shipping. If you’re used to buying garments made in the third world, that price might seem expensive. So this coat might not be for you. But if you have ever shopped around for an American-made coat that was individually stitched using domestic materials, you know this is a ridiculously low price.
We have a limited number available for immediate shipment. Click here for more details or to purchase one.
When I built my first woodworking project as an adult, I didn’t have a single subscription to a woodworking magazine and the only woodworking book I owned was a tattered Graham Blackburn tome, “Illustrated Basic Carpentry,” from 1976. What I knew about joinery, glue and finishes could fit in a teaspoon (with room left over for sugar).
I didn’t know enough to be apprehensive about designing a sitting bench. Or that my joinery choices (dowels) were laughable. Or that I wasn’t supposed to put an oil varnish over a water-base stain. Or that I needed more than one sharpening stone to get a keen edge on my block plane.
Of course, the project came out just fine. I sit on it every day in our kitchen as I work out the groceries I need for dinner. Hundreds of guests have sat on it as our dinner parties inevitably moved to the kitchen. Its finish is well worn by nearly 30 years of use, but it is rock solid.
I could build a nicer bench, but this guy serves as a reminder not to act too smart. Or to make things too technical. And that ignorance – coupled with strong desire – can go a long way.
The Rainbow Room in New York is one of the commercial interiors for which Heitink has furnished custom-veneered panels. (Photo from Heitink website)
My favorite instructor, Mr. Williams, always said Anyone can do something right. The real skill is knowing how to fix things that go wrong.
Maddeningly, there will always be things that go wrong. Overlooked abrasive marks beneath your flawless finish? Check. (Scrape the whole tabletop down and refinish.) A brand-new oven front dented by a dropped cabinet door? Check. (Pay to have oven part replaced by manufacturer’s service person.) Etc. The moment of discovery is always a punch in the gut.
My most recent experience with this sickening phenomenon came earlier this week. I was making great progress on a job I’d started that morning—months later than anticipated, thanks to a stack of other work commitments (and also thanks to my clients’ patience). The job involves a set of panels custom veneered with dyed eucalyptus. As I made the first cut, my client’s reaction to the price was still ringing in my ears. “X-thousand dollars? Just tell me–is this like buying a gold-plated toilet?” No, I reassured him; the purchase didn’t necessarily qualify as extravagant. The price reflected the exotic species of veneer, which was dyed in Europe, then exported to the United States.
Around midday I was lifting another panel onto the tablesaw to miter an edge when my eye was caught by a note in my handwriting on the order form: Grain to run horizontally, i.e. parallel with dimensions under “width.” The grain on the panels was vertical.
I got the job folder from my bench and sifted through the records. Sure, the evidence was right in front of me on the order form, but I honestly couldn’t remember which way the clients had wanted the grain to run. It had been so long since we’d discussed it–and the magnitude of the cock-up (to use a charming British term) would be so daunting that I just wasn’t ready to believe it.* I called the clients to check. No answer. I left a message. Next I wrote by email.
By bedtime there was still no response. I hardly slept that night; each time I lapsed into slumber, I found myself in a different subconscious-generated torture scenario involving horizontal versus vertical grain.
The following morning I contacted Max Jeffrey, the salesperson at Heitink Veneers, and let him know there might have been a mistake. He said he would look into it and assured me they would make things right.
And that’s exactly what they did. No prevaricating, no drama; just a sincere apology for having laid up the veneer in the wrong orientation, while noting that this kind of error is exceedingly rare because they take grain orientation seriously. (As a customer of theirs for nearly a decade, I know this to be true.) Tell us what we need to do to make things right for your clients, Max said.
When my client called back, I explained the situation and asked whether he would like Heitink to order new veneer and remake the panels, or would he and his wife like to keep the grain vertical. My personal preference, I added honestly, was the existing vertical orientation, because the island’s stone counter has a bold lengthwise grain and I thought the added linearity of horizontal-grain panels might make the island seem as though it was ready to shoot through their back door. They asked for a break on the price, and Heitink agreed to refund that amount. (The clients had purchased the veneered panels directly and had already paid in full.)
To paraphrase Mr. Williams, Anyone can do something right. What’s truly impressive is making things right for your customer—graciously—when you have made a mistake on their order. When I asked Jan Heitink (he’s Dutch; his name is pronounced “Yon”) whether he would permit me to identify his company in this post, he said yes, adding, “We strive for perfection in our products but in real life there is no such thing and when a situation does not go as planned, how we react to the situation is what will leave a lasting impression.”
I couldn’t have put it better myself.–Nancy Hiller, author of Making Things Work
One of several jobs in which I have incorporated custom-veneered panels from Heitink, this was a kitchen refaced in composite teak. (Photo by Kendall Reeves, Spectrum Studio)
*This is why I put everything in writing. But even so, in this case, I wanted to consult the clients to make sure I had ordered what they wanted.
