This week we were trolled by a guy on the internet who informed us that he was a printer and that there was no paper shortage. We were just making it up.
Deep breaths.
A few years ago, John and I toured one of the several printing plants that we use. It took two days to see everything, and the most enormous part of the tour was the paper storage and recycling facility.
A fancy sheet-fed printing press is about the size of a city bus. The paper needed to feed that press can fill a city block and be three or four stories high. At our Tennessee plant, the paper comes in on train tracks through the building. I made a short film above that shows some of the paper storage – there was no way to get it all in one shot.
That storage building is now empty and stays empty. As soon as paper arrives, it is gobbled up by the presses. Small publishers, such as us, have little say in what sort of paper gets used in a book right now. If you don’t like the paper on hand, you can go to the end of the line and try again.
This week, we were told that the plant acquired some paper for “The Stick Chair Book.” Here was our choice: We could use paper that was a little cheaper than what we ordered. Or we could use a premium uncoated paper that was considerably more expensive than what we originally asked for.
We took the more expensive paper. But we have decided to keep the book’s retail price at $49. I just can’t see people paying more than $50 for a book on making vernacular chairs.
If things stay on track, the physical, chewed-up-tree version of “The Stick Chair Book” will be out in late October.
In the meantime, we will continue to offer “The Stick Chair Book Early Adopter Digital Package” until the hardbound book is released. For $25 you get a pdf of the book, plus pdfs of all the full size-patterns to make the five chairs in the book. And sheets and sheets of supplemental CAD drawings of the chairs.
When the book is released, this digital package will go away forever.
I’ve had a few questions lately about fitting the lid to the Anarchist’s Tool Chest, so I’m betting there are at least 10 other readers who need the same answers.
In a non-class situation (that is, when I have the leisure of waiting on stock prep), I wait to cut lid parts to final size until the carcase is completely done. That way, I can measure the glued-up carcase at the top, then cut my rails, stiles and lid panel so that the lid assembly is a perfect fit (including an extra 1/8″ or so at the front and sides) to the top edges of the carcase.
Here’s my “stunt lid” assembly (a teaching tool) aligned with the top edges of my ATC. I aim to have this assembly overhang the chest edges by about 1/16″ on either side, and between 1/16″ to 1/8″ at the front.
Then, after I glue up the lid assembly, I can set it atop its chest and show the dust-seal pieces to the lid to mark them off the work instead of measuring. I’m far more likely to get good results that way.
By showing the dust seal pieces to the work, I can get the perfect width and thickness without using numbers.
Once the lid is done, it’s time to attach it. At the back, it is flush to the carcase – the hinge gains get cut into the top of the back edge of the chest, and the underside of the lid’s back rail, and you end up with a gap of about 1/16″ to 1/8″. Yes, a little dust can get in, but I’ve had tools in my first ATC in my basement shop for more than five years, and they’ve remained rust-free. For five years before that, my shop at home shared space with my books and computer…so it was well heated, air conditioned and humidity controlled. In either case, that little gap? No problem.
Wille Sundqvist standing in front of two tool chests. The tool chest mentioned in the story below is the one to the left.
Many of you have asked how the crowdfunding campaign to save Wille Sundqvist’s tools turned out, which we first wrote about here. With a goal of $4,000, the campaign raised $19,183 in just a couple days. Here’s what happened.
When Jögge Sundqvist’s father Wille Sundqvist died in 2018, Jögge and his two brothers assumed that many of Wille’s tools, sculptures and items from his shop would go to them, particularly to Jögge, who has been instrumental in keeping his father’s legacy alive by teaching traditional carving methods via books, videos and classes around the world. Wille lived his last years in Högland, a small village in the Bjurholm Municipality.
And although Jögge and his brothers have been in agreement throughout the entire process of dealing with their father’s estate, there have been others who have not; as so often happens with families, wills and second marriages, things got complicated.
Wille made many horses in his lifetime, including this one in 1991.
The only items that were given to Jögge and his brothers were three horses their father made when he was between the ages of 12 and 16 years old. This is the one that was given to Jögge.
For the first 10 years of Jögge’s life, he and his family lived in an apartment where his dad had his little workshop in the boys’ bedroom. Jögge and his brothers slept on stacked beds next to their father’s workbench, chopping block, axes and saws, and a beautiful tool chest with a precise interior with parts that flipped in and folded out so that every tool had its special place. It’s a long and private story, but even after offering to spend what translates to nearly $1,800 USD months prior to this most recent auction, Jögge and his brothers were unable to gain ownership of their father’s tool chest.
Eventually Wille’s house was sold and all its contents were put up for auction. If Jögge or either of his brothers wanted anything that was still available, they were going to have to buy it. When a Facebook announcement came up about the auction Jögge instinctively posted something along the lines of hoping that the people who buy his father’s remaining tools and things take care of his father’s heritage and share his stories.
In less than 20 minutes Jögge received a message from Ty Thornock.
Jögge first met Ty several years ago. Jögge was teaching up north and Ty, who lived close by, sent Jögge a message and said he wanted to say hi and have a fika (coffee).
“So we did,” Jögge says. “We had a coffee. And that was right after my father’s death. And then all of a sudden he shows me a spoon he made with some kolrosing in it. And it was a picture of my father, in the spoon blade. And I was totally – it was so nice of him. It was so gentle and so warm and he did it in such a beautiful way. And I was so happy to have that spoon. So this is one of the treasures now in my home. He actually gave it to me. He was such a nice guy.”
The spoon Ty made for Jögge.
Ty and Jögge have kept in touch, and Jögge says that Ty has also generously helped him write about kolrosing techniques for his new forthcoming book about Scandinavian chip carving.
So Ty’s a great guy. And he messages Jögge to ask, “Do you want me to set up a GoFundMe?”
Now Jögge had never heard of GoFundMe.
Ty asked how much Jögge thought he needed to cover the tools. Thinking of only the tools and nothing else, Jögge suggested $4,000 USD and sent Ty a picture of Wille. At 6 p.m., Ty posted the campaign on the GoFundMe website. And Jögge? Well, he was invited to dinner at woodworker Beth Moen’s place.
“We had a wonderful evening, good food and we had such a good time together,” Jögge says. “I mean, we’ve known each other since the early ’80s and we’re deep friends.”
Once home that evening, at about 11 p.m., Jögge finally looked at his phone again. “What?” was all he could say.
The campaign had already raised $15,000 USD.
“That was so amazing,” he says. “I couldn’t believe my eyes. I said, there must be something wrong with this. Because I know the slöjd world. I’ve been teaching in Europe, England, United States, Japan, all over. And I know many people in the slöjd world aren’t very rich people. So I was totally blown away. I called my brothers and said, ‘Wow. This is amazing. The slöjd community did it. Now we can buy tools and items from this auction as we want.’”
A few months after Wille died, Jögge had reached out to the municipality of Bjurholm to talk about creating some sort of installation, a memory room if you will. The problem? It’s one of the smallest municipalities in Sweden, just 2,500 people, and not a lot of money is available for such endeavors. And when all the problems with obtaining the items began, the conversations halted. But now? Jögge entered the auction with a new vision.
“I had this in my mind that maybe we could buy things that could represent my father in the room with some text, some videos, some items and some tools,” he says. “So during the auction I tried to buy stuff that would represent his workshop. So I got the chopping block, I got some axes, I got some sketches, I got his apron, I got his signs from the workshop – I think I have a pretty decent collection now, which is special in showing who he was. So I’m very happy about getting all these things.”
Jögge was able to buy his father’s axe at the auction, but missed the saw.
This is the back cover photo from Wille Sundqvist’s book “Tälja med kniv och yxa,” (“Swedish Carving Techniques”). Wille carved on the train when he was traveling. Jögge was able to purchase one of his father’s leather’s aprons at the auction, thanks to money raised.
Jögge says he also felt a sense of relief knowing these items weren’t purchased using his money or his brothers’ money.
“This is the slöjd community in the world that stood up and said, Fight for it! Go for it!,” he says. “And without that I don’t know if I would have been able to actually have the power to do that because it takes – when you lose a father, which you had taken a responsibility for the cultural heritage that he tried to pass on, it’s so tough. And it was so emotional to go there in the workshop and see all the people in the workshop, looking at the things and wanting to buy them and all that stuff. I couldn’t stand it. So I was just sitting outside waiting for the auction to begin. But then knowing that people around the world were in my back, so to say, was just kind of, I was so happy, you know. When I came home, feeling that, OK, well we solved this, we finally kept a private collection and managed to spread the word about my father, with a little help from my friends.”
And the funding truly was worldwide. Jögge laughs and says only a few Swedes contributed money to the campaign, simply because they couldn’t understand it.
“This way of financing things in Sweden is way beyond,” Jögge says. “It’s not happening at all. We have no tradition of private people giving money to others. Because we have a social democratic society you apply for grants or official funding.”
Some of the Swedes who were following this on social media even sent Jögge private messages. “Oh, something is going on?” Jögge says, reciting a typical message. “‘Do you actually need money?’ They couldn’t realize it was happening! It was so special. For a Swede, seeing this, it was blowing my mind in a way.”
Wille Sundqvist’s tool chest
Jögge and his brothers still don’t have the tool chest, some meaningful sculptures and some items that are personally important to them. There’s still a lot of hurt.
“For us, it’s not the money,” he says. “I have to be clear about that. It’s not the money. Even though I’m not a rich man. For me it’s the memory and the stories about father and what he actually achieved with his work that I want to preserve.”
But because of the grand generosity of the worldwide slöjd and woodworking community, Jögge was able to save many of his father’s personal effects. The remaining money will be used to support the Wille Sundqvist and Bill Coperthwaite Slöjd Fellowship, a grant that is awarded every year to craftspeople around the world who are dedicated to sharing their crafts with other people. Jögge says recipients have included Beth Moen, JoJo Wood, Jarrod Dahl, Peter Follansbee, Robin Wood and Masashi Kutsuwa.
“That feels like a really good thing, that this money can come back to people in that way,” he says.
Jögge is also reserving some money to resume talks with Bjurholm Municipality, with hopes of creating a space to honor his father’s legacy.
“So that’s the plan!” Jögge says. “And I hope it’s going to work out.”
When we published “The Book of Plates” years ago, we received many questions from customers as to why they should buy a book filled with pictures of dinner plates.
“Plate” is, of course, an old word for “engraving.” And the pictures in the book were not of dinner plates, but of the drawings in A.J. Roubo’s “l’Art de Menuisier.”
But today we’re going to talk about a delftware dinner plate from 1769 that shows an interior of a nice woodworking shop with lots of tools, a workbench and (perhaps) a zombie attack.
The plate appeared on the cover of The Magazine Antiques’ May 1981 issue and was in the collection of James C. Sorber, a well-known Pennsylvania collector. I learned about this plate from Dan, a woodworking comrade in Texas, and so I bought an old back issue to examine it.
Delftware has its origins in the Netherlands, and so it didn’t surprise me to see a Dutch saw hanging on the back wall of the shop. The other tools on the back wall are typical for the time, including the chisels with the fishtail blades, the braces, the nail pincers and the dividers.
The workbench is interesting (of course). It gives me a Dutch vibe as well. It bears some resemblance to the one shown in the altarpiece at St. John’s Church in Gouda (circa 1565). The Gouda bench has six legs, with the front three pierced with many holes for pegs or holdfasts. No vises.
My drawing of the Gouda workbench from “The Anarchist’s Workbench.”
The 1769 bench also features three “legs” pierced with many legs for holdfasts or pegs. No vises. But two of the legs are drawn more like sliding board jacks (aka deadmen). Though a bench with two sliding board jacks is unusual – this is the first one I’ve seen.
I’m not sure what tool the woodworker is using on the bench. It looks like a scorp or travisher to me. But I have chairs on the brain.
Also, we have to keep in mind that the purpose of this plate was not designed to educate, but to immobilize some gravy or restrain some pudding.
With that in mind, let’s take a look at the guy to the right. At first I thought he was destroying the picture frames leaning against the wall. Then I looked at his feet, and it appears he is standing on a board. It looks like he’s holding an axe, but it could be an adze. In either case, he really should look where he is cutting, or the artist will have to add some red glaze to the plate.
In fact, I think he looks poised for a 18th-century zombie attack on the workshop. If this plate were indeed made in the Netherlands, then they are probably Spanish zombies.
And now I am going to end this blog entry before it gets too ridiculous.
We are in the final stages of producing our latest tool, a Crucible Planing Stop that is easy to install, looks similar to a traditional hand-forged stop and is reasonably priced (about $49).
I hope this tool will be out by the end of the year, but we are at the mercy of our supply chain, which loves to whip us almost every day.
Here’s why I think the world needs another planing stop.
I love blacksmith-made planing stops, which are embedded in the end of a block of wood that is about 2-1/2” x 2-1/2” x 12”. The block is friction-fit into a mortise in the benchtop and moves up and down with mallet taps.
For me, the planing stop is as important as the workbench’s face vise and has almost-endless uses.
My main problem with a blacksmith planing stop is that it can be tricky to install. You need to drill a stepped hole in the block of wood or heat up the shaft of the planing stop in a forge and burn it into the block. And there is always the risk of splitting the block during the process.
Also, some people think that blacksmith stops are too expensive (I disagree), which can cost $100 to $300.
The Crucible Planing Stop is made from ductile iron, so it can take a beating. Hit it with a metal sledge, and it will not shatter (unlike typical gray iron). The teeth and the angle of the head of the stop are based on A.J. Roubo’s planing stop from the 18th century.
And – this is important – it is easy to install. Here’s how you do it: Buy a 5/8” (or 16mm) spade bit (less than $10). Drill a full-depth hole in the block of wood and remove the sawdust and chips. Drop the shaft of the planing stop into the hole and it will stop about 1” from the bottom of the hole. Knock it with a hammer a few times and the stop will cut its way into the hole and bed itself in place. Done.
It’s a dirt-simple tool, but getting to this point took more than a year of experimenting with hand-forged stops, developing the casting patterns and (where we are now) developing the risering so the liquid metal goes where it needs to go.
RIght now we are trying to get on the foundry’s schedule as soon as possible. We will let you know when the wheels have started moving.
