[Editor’s note: We recently reached out for an interview with Maurice Pommier, author and illustrator of “Grandpa’s Workshop” (translated by Brian Anderson – you can read about Brian’s visit to see Maurice and his workshop in 2012 here). Maurice lives in Évreux, France, and speaks little English. But he responded, in the most generous way – an illustrated letter. Here are his words, as he wrote them without edits from us, along with a handful of illustrations, sketches and pictures to help paint a small picture of who Maurice is and some of the brilliant work he has done.]
I am not very able to speak of me. I am born in 1946.
My mother was dressmaker. She worked hard, early morning and late evening.
My father, alive but broken by the nazis.
We lived in a little village, Peyrat de Bellac. I go to school and after I was boarder at collège in the nearby town.
I thank life for having put in my company a lot of great people – I can not name them all. I choose three, the others do not be dissatisfied.
Tonton Dédé, the best, with working with tools and with his hands.
Pépé Léonard, the best storyteller. When he stop speaking, he was whistling.
Mémé Anna.
I think I’ve been drawing since I know how is made a pencil.
In 1968, I married Francine, she supports me since that date. We live in Évreux. We had three children and now four grandchildren; I worked at the Post Office for a long time. But I did not stop drawing.
My friend Xavier Josset has been presenting my first book to a publisher, me, I would have never been there.
After things changed, I left the Post Office, but I continued to draw and scribble. And write stories. In the following pages I enclose a small catalog of my bad habits. J’espère ne pas être ennuyeux.
My current job, under Patrick’s direction. I met Patrick Macaire a few years ago and since, in my drawing workshop, there is a struggle for space between little pieces of wood and drawings.
P. 93
Tracés théoriques qui ne seront pas repris intégralement à l’épure (Theoretical plots that will not be fully included in the sketch)
P. 99
Jambe de force La jambe de force peut s’établir en prolongeant sa face inférieure jusqu’au lattis et en reportant son niveau sur la ferme de croupe et de l’arêtier; puis, en plan, en générant une sablière d’emprunt (au niveau de la ligne de trave) et en la faisant tourner à l’axe. Vérification en générant un faîtage d’emprunt au niveau de la dalle et en faisant tourner: les trois points doivent s’aligner.
We are finishing the Deuxième carnet – it’s been 7 years since we are working on these two notebooks.
Surrounding the workshop of Wyatt Childs Inc., the acreage is stacked with antique stonework, ironwork and enormous millstones and grindstones. It’s literally a garden of earthly delights, and I spent as much time as I could wandering in the yard during the French Oak Roubo Project.
But I missed something, and it took Will Myers to set me straight. After we cut off work on Tuesday night, our clothes shot through with French oak, Will guided me to a huge chunk of rock I’d missed before.
It was the stone architectural ornament shown above. In the center is a skep that is flanked by scales (not sure what is on the scales; they don’t look like coins). Below is written: Industry Labor & Wait.
Bo Childs said the ornament came from an English bank building where it was above the door. The “& Wait” part is what deposit holders are supposed to do when they save their money. I was a bit confused by the American spelling of “labor” on an English bank building, but it’s a big world with a lot of odd spellings.
Will turned to me and said: “You have to have it.”
The piece is massive – it weighs 2,600 pounds. My head spun when thinking about how to move that into the storefront’s biergarten 500 miles away. Apparently I was so dizzy that I asked Bo how much he wanted for his pretty rock.
Bo said: “You have to have it.” And he quoted me a price that I couldn’t say no to.
Getting the rock to my door in Covington is easy via LTL and a liftgate. But the last 20 feet are going to be a creative and careful endeavor. I don’t want my obituary to say I was crushed by a symbol of capitalism.
We are reducing the number of days we are opening the storefront to the public in 2020 from 12 days to two days – June 13 and Dec. 12, 2020.
We’re doing this to make more time to edit books and build furniture, which is what I prefer to do at all times when I’m not sleeping or chewing.
All of us enjoy the Saturdays we are open the public. We’ve made some good friends and met some people from far-flung places during the last four years. But the “press” part of Lost Art Press needs to come first, and I’m behind schedule on several book projects.
I’m putting out the news now in case you want to visit during the last two open days in 2019 – Nov. 9 and Dec. 14, 2019. During the December 2019 open day – like last year – we will have the clock in the machine room, which we would like to show you.
If I get back on schedule, we might increase the number of open days in the future. But until then: nose, please meet grindstone.
We’re in the middle of building 20 (!!) French workbenches this week down in Barnesville, Ga., a small town south of Atlanta. Here, Bo Childs has graciously lent us his ample workshop and machinery (Martin planers and shapers!) to get the job done in a week.
Benchcrafted organized this massive event, which requires months of preparation (years, actually if you count the sourcing and air-drying of the wood). And like everything Jameel Abraham and Father John touch, it’s just as it should be.
There’s lots of help – you can ask Jeff Miller, Will Myers, Don Williams, Ron Brese, Megan Fitzpatrick or me for a hand with layout, joint fitting or assembly. The lunches are great (who eats bread pudding at lunch? Apparently, I do now). And the wood is just right. We’re using oak sourced from France that has been air-drying for more than a decade.
Some of the students have been a little bemused by the knots, splits and bug holes in the wood, but I keep telling them: That’s exactly what the old benches look like. I don’t want furniture-grade wood for a French workbench. Embrace the defects.
And I think we’re going to get everyone assembled by the end of day on Friday. I probably won’t get to see it, however. I need to be on a plane out of Cincinnati by 6 p.m. Friday to start a chairmaking class on Monday morning. (It’s a stupid way to make a living, but it beats working.)
I don’t know if Benchcrafted and Bo will ever do this again. If they do, I hope they’ll ask me to lend a hand again. And if you ever get a chance to participate, I recommend you start saving your pennies now.
People take woodworking classes for a lot of deeply personal and disturbingly wack-doodle reasons. I’ve had students take a class because they want to change their whole life, and others who paid the same money simply to escape their life for two days.
For most of my life, I couldn’t afford to take woodworking classes, and then I found myself in the odd position of teaching them.
As a result I have a skewed take. On the one hand, hands-on classes are perhaps the best way to learn. On the other hand, I can’t believe how much they cost students. (In fact, they are still difficult for me to afford.)
This dichotomy got me thinking. If I could take only two woodworking classes, what would they be? I struggled with the question until I allowed myself three woodworking classes.
Sharpening 101
If you take only one woodworking class, I think it should be a sharpening course. Sharpening is the gateway skill to learning handwork, carving, turning and many other corners of the craft. And, with a good teacher, it isn’t hard to learn.
Find a teacher who doesn’t sell sharpening equipment (those classes can be a mini Amway convention. If you see a fog machine when you first enter the bench room, run for your life). Find someone who sharpens more than just chisels – edge tools come in all shapes. And try to find out how gizmo-heavy the class is. Sharpening is not about the equipment. It’s about understanding its principles and executing them with the stuff you own (or can afford).
Build a Workbench
A good workbench makes everything easier. But building one can take a year of your life – a year that could be spent making furniture instead. So instead, take a one-week class where you build a workbench using the heavy-duty machinery that makes it a breeze. You probably don’t need a shaper to make furniture, but a shaper sure makes building a bench easier. Take advantage of the school’s equipment and expertise.
Even if you are a hand-tool purist, I recommend you hold your nose and do the deed so you can get on with the good part – designing and making furniture.
Chairmaking or Whatever
Years ago I tried to teach myself chairmaking with books alone and failed. I know that it’s possible to make a chair without taking a class, but chairmaking classes (like sharpening classes) short-circuit the process in a radical fashion. I took my first chair class in 2003 and have taken several more since, even though they are difficult to afford.
If you hate the idea of building chairs (and some people do), then pick a single skill that represents your highest goal – marquetry, bowl-turning, French polishing or whatever – and find someone who knows the magic tricks. There are indeed magic tricks to most woodworking processes, and the good instructors are willing to share them (bad instructors are happy to watch you struggle).
But most of all, make sure you don’t also buy a time-share condominium as part of that package of sharpening stones and flattening plates being hawked by your sharpening teacher. And don’t enroll in the “Waterstone of the Month Club,” either.