Humidors seem to come around in style every 25 years or so.
The current cover of Popular Woodworking features a humidor; when I saw it, I had to chuckle. At around the time I started at F&W Publications (which owned PW at the time), humidors were all the rage. In July 1997, PW published a how-to on John F. Kennedy’s humidor (the coverline: $574,000 Humidor (Your Price: $300)). Fine Woodworking published “Building a Humidor” in its Nov./Dec. 1997 issue. And although I’m too lazy to find out for sure, I’d bet a tin of homemade cookies the other U.S. woodworking magazines also published humidor plans at around the same time. (And again when cigar bars were a fashionable thing in the aughts.)
And that got me thinking about woodworking trends, though perhaps the better term is fashion. Woodworking styles are not unlike clothing – the “in” styles come and go. (The possible exceptions are Shaker and Arts & Crafts furniture – but perhaps they just have longer legs, so to speak.)
Sometimes it’s specific to one group of makers (California roundover as a sterling example…or the cup holders on seemingly every project at PW for a few years as a perhaps unfortunate example). Sometimes its due to world events (The Woodworker Magazine articles throughout WWII on making projects with as few supplies as possible spring to mind). Sometimes it’s regional (Black Forest carvings on pieces from that eponymous region). Sometimes it’s a time-period renaissance (Queen Anne dining sets in the 1950s, mid-century modern right now).
“Dart Board Case,” by David Thiel, from PW May 1998. (“Step 8: Make the cup holders from 1″ thick material, resawn to leave a 1/4″ thick bottom piece. Cut 3″ diameter holes in the top piece[s]. Glue the pieces back together. Cut the two cup holders to finished size.”)
I suspect I have implicit bias, but it seems to me we’re in the midst of a multiplicity of overly long-lived woodworking trends…and because I’m old and want all the kids to get off my lawn, I don’t like too many of them (not that my approval matters one whit). Barn wood? It belongs on barns. Epoxy? It’s the perfect adhesive in some situations. Hairpin legs? Hairpins are for updos. Live edge anything? Well, at least when that trend dies, a rip cut will take care of it.
But I needn’t have a positive aesthetic response to a thing to be happy that people are in the shop making stuff; whatever floats your boat down that (epoxy) river (table) is fine by me. And anyway, I’m for sure casting stones in a glass house. At this moment, there’s an “anarchist’s tool chest” on my bench, and a Kentucky (via Wales) stick chair on Chris’ bench. My email and LAP Facebook page comments let me know on the regular that plenty of folks retch at both; my feeling is not hurt.
I know there are many more 20th- and 21st-century woodworking fads, some that keep trucking along and some that were but a flash in the pan (such as waterfall tables – or are they still a big thing and I just don’t know it?) – but I need to stop thinking about it and get back to my chest build, so help me out. In addition to the above, I have cribbage boards, Adirondack chairs, charcuterie boards, turned pens, fancy cutting boards…
In these latter days of war it is sometimes difficult to hold firmly to the vision that was ours in times of peace. We may be craftsmen who once had high standards of accomplishment which the rush and tear of wartime production, or lack of proper materials, have insensibly lowered; or we may simply be amateurs suffering from fatigue and scant leisure who have lost our one-time zest for creative work. Creation implies effort, and effort—whether of body or brain, or both—is not always an easy thing to produce when both are wearied. It could make things easier if we could recapture the vision, if we could consider anew the point of honour which existed among older craftsmen almost as though it were a natural law. A many might only be making a chair rung; if it fell short of his best the customer might never know, but he, the maker, would know and feel no satisfaction in his work.
***
But the attitude of mind which can be sensitive to our own shortcomings must needs be sensitive to perfection everywhere. That is another of our difficulties and dangers at the present time. When there is so much destruction wherever one looks, one’s finer senses are apt to become dulled. Even to lose hope is to let something slip which needs cherishing. Hope and vision cannot be separated, and the one will depend upon the other in the post-war world. But how are we to keep them alive? To do so we need to be able to refresh our minds and give them new courage and stimulus; and it is by contact with lovely things, either of the hands or the spirit, that this is best done. It has been no mean deprivation of the war years for people living in towns that they no longer have contact with the many beautiful things in our museums and picture galleries which have been sent away for safety. Until the time comes when they will be brought out of their hiding places, books are our best substitute ….
— Charles Hayward, The Woodworker magazine, 1945, excerpted from “Honest Labour“
Iain Whittington, a woodworker and retired army engineer, has published a second book on woodcarving, “Amateur Woodcarving.”
For those interested in learning the craft of decorative carving with a chisel and knife, “Amateur Woodcarving” covers everything from tool selection, including basic carving tools and carving knives, to sharpening techniques, workholding and finishing, all within a historical context. Whittington then looks at the use of geometric design in ornamentation and spends some time talking about design and drawing before diving into simple techniques. Thirteen projects, which increase in complexity and are accompanied by step-by-step descriptions and photos, include a chip-carved panel, horse, simple end piece, breadboard, 17th-century panel carving, wood spirit, Norwegian-style wall clock, mangle board, acanthus barge board and more.
As with Whittington’s first book, “WoodCarving: A Norwegian Textbook,” a translation of Odd Fauske’s “Lærebok i treskjæring” (a compendium of project plans for woodcarving and folk art first published in the 1970s), all proceeds of “Amateur Woodcarving” will go directly to the SSAFA, the Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen and Families Association, a U.K. charity that provides support to men, women and veterans from the British Armed Forces, along with their families and dependents.
To learn more about the book and order, go here for U.S. customers. In the U.K., go here. In the EU, here.
You cannot. You can’t build a table with this sort of joinery and use it for a tough task such as butchering. Can you? There’s only one way to find out, and it doesn’t involve your mouth or a keyboard.(Illustration by Katherine Schwarz)
The following is excerpted from “The Anarchist’s Design Book,” by Christopher Schwarz. Chris often writes a short intro to these Tuesday excerpts, but I’m not sure how he’ll feel about writing one for his own book – after all, one can assume that everything he had to say on the subject is already in the book. Plus, Chris is the least self-aggrandizing person I know. So here’s a few words of praise from me: I think this book is brilliant. It teaches even the most rank beginner how to build simple but handsome furniture with just a few joints and a small kit of tools. It makes the craft approachable, and invites readers in, taking them from simple projects through more advanced pieces of furniture, all building on the previous lessons. And sure – lots of books do that. But the interstitial chapters, such as the one below, teach more than how, they teach why – and that makes “The Anarchist’s Design Book” a joy to read.
— Fitz
I’m talking about shellac with a couple of experienced woodworkers and one of them remarked about an old employer:
“This guy made us make our own shellac,” he said with a sense of wonder.
“He made you go to India and beat the trees?” I asked, a tad confused.
“What? No,” he replied. “We had to mix it up with flakes and alcohol.”
“Wait, how else can you do it?” I replied honestly.
After an awkward pause, the other woodworker said: “Next you’re going to try to convince us to make our own glue out of animals.”
He’s right. I was.
I wouldn’t call myself a traditionalist or a purist. I wear modern underwear. I use all manner of hand tools and machines. I’m fascinated by historical techniques, CNC, 3D printing and how technology (old and new) could change furniture making for the better. It is more accurate to say that I’m an explorer. If someone told me I could make my own paint from beer, I’d try it that night. (I did, and you can.) And if someone were to tell me you could shrink beech biscuits in the microwave, I’d try that, too. (I did, and you can’t. They only catch fire.)
The point is that woodworking is most interesting when you open yourself up to new techniques, no matter how crazy or daunting. I am always surprised at how easy most things turn out to be in our craft. The most difficult part seems to be to work up the courage to begin.
This is not a new problem. It is an old one that was at times state-mandated.
During the last decade I’ve had the privilege to work in Germany with talented journeymen who completed their formal training both in school and in the real world, earning the right to build furniture for a living.
As you would expect, these men and women are tremendously skilled and knowledgeable. They can cut joinery by hand or with power tools with equal facility. They can finish setting up an enormous spindle moulder then pick up a handplane.
It’s a bit humbling for someone who hasn’t been through the German program.
But then one year I taught a class over there that involved some simple turnings for some chair legs. And I was surprised that none of them had ever turned a spindle or carved a leg. They had never even really considered trying it, even though they had a sweet lathe in their shop.
Those tasks were reserved for people in the turning or carving programs. So their teachers never showed them even the first thing about the lathe or other woodworking disciplines.
I taught them to turn. They loved it. And because of all the other skills they had learned as joiners, they picked it up remarkably fast.
So the next time someone tells you that you can make your own liquid hide glue with a hot plate, try it – if only to prove that you can’t.
Norwegian forest workers wondering where all the stick chairs are.
All the factors should be in place.
Trees? Check.
More than 2,000 years of well-documented woodworking and other crafting traditions? Check.
A large countryside with huge distances and scattered, isolated villages? Check.
A long and proud history of self-sufficiency and homesteading? Check and check.
So how come I can’t find any vernacular stick chairs in this country?
I have no idea.
Norway can be a harsh place to live. Both the arctic climate and our expressive topography has made it necessary for previous generations to employ both survival skills and creativity. Some would also claim that the urge to live in isolation is embedded in our genes and culture. Many farms and villages are still situated in roadless areas only accessed by boat or mountain trails. The off grid, primitive and quiet life is an integral part of our heritage. It’s so popular that even one of our most popular shows on national TV is a documentary series about Norwegians living off grid. It’s been running in the prime-time slot for 20 years.
You might wonder where I’m going with this. Well, I’m just trying to make the point that I’m surprised we don’t have a stronger tradition of making stick chairs here. People led simple and primitive lives, often poor and in relative isolation. Your nearest neighbor would often be behind the next mountain. Everything would have to be made on the farm using available resources or perhaps made by a traveling craftsman. When it comes to chairs, I would suspect that primitive stick chairs were the norm. Mortising sticks or even branches into a seat is an ancient construction method that’s quick and easy and has been around since they built the pyramids.
Hoem Farm, 2018. Someone must have made a stick chair here once.
I’ve searched through books, libraries, visited farms, antique shops, collections, talked to conservators, collectors, professors and myself. All I’ve ever found are either joined chairs, ladderback chairs or log chairs.
Log chair. Not a stick chair.Ladderback chair. Also not a stick chair.Joined chair. Definitely not a stick chair.
Lost and Found
I was about to give up. Then I talked to Chris Williams, the Welsh chairmaker and Lost Art Press author. I told him about my quest and why it meant so much to me. I’ve always preferred primitive stick chairs over anything else because I feel they’re so bare and honest. I’m a sucker for simplistic beauty and decay aesthetics. Chris told me to keep searching and said he was positive that something would turn up. I’m not sure how he would know, but I took his word for it. So I kept digging and, lo and behold, one day I came across this creature:
This is a staked stool found in a Goahti, the traditional hut or tent that our indigenous Sámi use to live in. It was found and documented by Asbjørn Nesheim (1906-1989), who was a pioneer researcher of Sámi people culture and ways of life. At a first glance it might not look that special, but I knew immediately that I’d never seen anything like it. It’s a primitive, staked construction. Probably made by the same person who needed a place to sit.
The unique thing here though is the use of the natural crook or root used for the seat. Naturally bent wood is often seen in Welsh stick chairs, both old and modern. Though almost always in the arm or the back of the chairs. And I knew right away that I’ve never seen a crook used like this in a stool before. To make a long story short, finding out more about this tradition became a new obsession for me. And I found several more. All over the country, both in Sámi and Norwegian culture. I’ve never seen them before and suddenly they’re popping up everywhere. It’s like when you learn a new word and suddenly you see it everywhere.
Wildly Grown Speculations
Considering that they show up all over Norway over a time span of at least 200 years, my hopeful conclusion is that this particular construction method and style got traction and became somewhat popular. Which is not unlikely, as it’s quick, sturdy and light. Norway is also chock full of crooked mountain birches and other wonky species.
I’m also guessing that stools and benches were more popular than chairs. Hence the abundance of stools and the lack of stick chairs. Chairs were a luxury. You can be really comfortable on a bench or a stool, especially if you can lean your back towards the wall. Therefore, it might not be worth the effort putting a back on them. Stools are also light and versatile. They can easily be carried around, out on the porch, into the barn and around the house.
Norwegian mountain birch
Uncovering Old Tracks
For a long time I had a bunch of old photos of these “half moon stools”, but no further information. Then one day I finally found a 1943 publication from a museum where the aforementioned researcher Asbjørn Nesheim had published a brief article. Each time he visited the Sámi people, he often stumbled across these stools and became fascinated with them. They seemed to show up everywhere he went, but no one het met could specify their origin. Which probably means that they’ve “always been there”. This was all just a sidetrack from his much broader studies of Sámi culture, but he was so intrigued that he wrote an article about the stools. His 4-page article ends with the following (translated by me):
“This article has looked at a part of Sámi culture that is neither large, nor very significant. However, this is where we get a closer look into highly developed skills within the Sámi people. These skills are essential for their highly evolved wilderness culture: ingenuity and adaptiveness. Studying their vernacular furniture also raises the question whether there has been cultural contact and exchanges between Sámi people and non-Sámi people. Taking this into consideration, I would like to call for further information or knowledge about the origins of the “half moon stool.”
These Sámi people probably had a stool, but didn’t have it ready for the photo.
These are all very good points being made. Keep in mind though that the reason he asks whether there could have been a cultural exchange, is that there wasn’t expected to have been one. The indigenous Sámi people suffered well over 100 years of ugly and shameful oppression from Norway, officially until 1959.
From what I can make of it, Asbjørn Nesheim’s quest ended there. And thereby also mine for now. If he ever got his call for help answered and got to know more about the origin and tradition of these unique stools, I haven’t been able to find out about it. However, I’m thrilled to have found a type of stool that seems to be both unique and deeply rooted in tradition. How it ended up all across the country, I don’t know. I’m also curious to why it has disappeared in tradition. No one seems to either remember them, how they learned to make them or why they make them just like that. It’s a mystery to me that we don’t know more about these stools. They’ve been around for centuries, obviously adapted by the nonindigenous and spread throughout the country. Are they perhaps so commonplace that they just disappear from our collective memories?
A beautiful, primitive Half Moon Stool. Made in Setesdal, Norway, 1862.
Finally, I’ll leave you with a little cliffhanger:Asbjørn Nesheim also came across a few very interesting chairs when studying Sámi culture. There were only a few and he didn’t go very much into detail, but they’re interesting. I have never seen anything like them. I’ll come back to them in a later post. If you have anything to add or tell me about Half Moon Stools or similar construction techniques, feel free to contact me directly or share it here in the comments! I’d love to know more.
