Last week, Welsh chairmaker Chris Williams returned to the United States to teach a couple classes and work on some supplemental photography for his forthcoming book “The Life & Work of John Brown.” (Due out next year, knock wood.)
Working with Chris is always a blast of chairmaking, stock prep, talking, planning, arguing, asking questions and generally giving each other the business about how the other makes chairs. Plus beer.
In fact, it’s so time-consuming that I’ve barely had time to do anything else (except prepare a couple hundred handles for lump hammers).
When Chris arrives, he always brings a big dose of Welsh culture to the shop – this year he brought along a Welsh flag to help set the mood for the class. He’s even tried to teach us a few more Welsh words, though the only one I can remember sounds like the words “bad TV” to my American ears.
And we are hoping to give him an equal dose of American craft culture. Last year we took him deep into Eastern Kentucky to explore the roots of chairmaker Chester Cornett. This year we plan to take him up to a huge Amish community in Ohio to revel in their sawmills, excellent fried chicken and cheesemaking. Oh, and maybe some old tools.
But before we can have any fun, we have to complete six chairs with some eager and talented students.
This large box with a drawer below is my interpretation of this rare form from the 17th century.
This is an excerpt from “Joiner’s Work” by Peter Follansbee.
Now things differ significantly from the basic box. Let’s start with the feet.
I’m no turner; I think of myself as a joiner who does some turning. I only know turning on the pole lathe, so I can’t guarantee that the methods I use will translate to other lathes. The lathe is a simple machine: a moveable “poppet” slides between the beds/rails of the lathe. One upright extends above the bed. Embedded into this and the moveable poppet are two iron points – these are what the turning blanks spin on. A cord wrapped around the workpiece connects to a long springy pole in the ceiling and a treadle underneath the lathe. Stomp on the treadle and the pole bends, the workpiece turns toward you and you can make a cut with your gouge or chisel, which is braced against a tool rest. Then let up the pressure on the treadle, the pole pulls back and the workpiece “unwinds” so you can start all over again. Very rhythmic.
The pole lathe, like a shaving horse, is a folk tool. Each one is different, but they are all essentially the same – a means to make the workpiece turn so you can cut it into cylindrical shapes.
I sometimes have turned feet from white oak; but I’ve mostly used maple to great effect (maple turnings are typically stained black, said to be an imitation of ebony).
Start with a billet about 16″ long and almost 2″ in diameter. I turn a foot on one end, test-fit its tenon, then burnish it and cut it off. Then re-center the turning and repeat. Or rough out several feet, trim the first tenon, then cut that foot off and re-center and resume turning.
My view of the lathe. On the left, the moveable poppet secured between the rails, or bed, of the lathe with a wooden wedge. On the right, one upright extends above the bed to form a fixed poppet. I’ve wrapped the cord around the workpiece and it’s tied above to the pole and below to the treadle. The workpiece spins on two iron points. One is threaded to make fine adjustments. Iron brackets running through the poppets support the tool rest.
The foot is a simple enough shape that I don’t make a pattern stick, but you certainly could. I just mark the 2″ height of the foot, with about a 3/4″ long tenon beyond that. Define the shoulder that separates the foot from the tenon with a gouge and skew. If you have a parting tool, that’s an excellent tool for this step. Someday I have to dig mine out and sharpen it, but in the meantime, I use the skew and gouge approach. The foot consists of a pear-shaped cylinder, a cove and a collar. I scribe a line defining the collar and cut in under that with the gouge to begin shaping the cove. I alternate coming in from the left and right to help open up the cove.
After roughing out the shape, a few light shavings bring the final smooth shape to completion. The best surface comes from the skew chisel.
For me, turning is always a lesson in “enough is enough.” I often have a tendency to think I can go back one more time to make it better. This sometimes works, but more often results in disaster. The pole lathe is helpful because it allows me to make mistakes more slowly than a faster lathe.
Here I roughed out several feet, finished the tenon on the left and will cut that foot off and repeat.
The feet have 1/2″-diameter tenons that fit through two 5/8″ x 1-1/2″ x 16″ slats of oak. I usually turn green wood, so I leave the tenons a bit thick so that when they shrink they will fit 1/2″ holes bored through the slats.
Leave the tenons extra long, too, but with a slight taper toward their ends. Size the tenons by forcing this tapered end into the hole (a test hole in dry hardwood is best, rather than risking deforming the actual piece). This burnishes an impression on the tenon.
Now the foot is secured in the slat. For my lifetime at least.
Then pare the tenon down to this impressed area. These can go back on the lathe for this trimming, or you can just shave them with a knife or chisel. This is another one of those patience things – if you hurry and drive in a too-tight tenon, it can split the thin, narrow slat. Once the feet are tenoned into the slats, split the protruding tenons from above, then drive a wooden wedge into each split to secure the feet in place.
I bored a pilot hole for these nails, reaching through the box bottom and just into the box sides.
Saw and pare them flush. Then bore pilot holes through the slats from below and nail these foot assemblies to the bottom. Depending on the thickness of your bottom boards and foot assemblies, your nail might reach through the bottom and into the bottom edge of the box ends.
Yesterday I dry-assembled this Irish Gibson chair and gave it a good squat. It sits very well, but there are some details that are a bit off. Mark Jenkinson, an Irish chair expert and owner of a cider mill, has been coaching me on the finer details of these chairs.
Here are some details I missed.
My back sticks aren’t notched into the arms. On most Gibson chairs there is a small birdsmouth-like notch cut into the arms to receive the sticks that form the outside of the “W.” Curiously, the photos of the chair I studied to make my chair don’t have these notches. I’ll have to change my arm pattern slightly to fix this. Easy.
My seat rakes backward. Mark noted that the Gibson chairs he has studied have seats that are parallel to the floor. Again, the example I studied had a raked seat. That could have been the result of the front legs being replaced. I like the backwards rake of this chair, so it will be interesting to sit in some historical examples to compare the opinions from my backside.
The “hands” on the arms are a bit off. Mine end in a lollipop shape. The originals are more of a half-lollipop. It’s an easy fix to the template.
All my sticks and legs likely need some more taper at the ends. This detail – called entasis – is something I apply lightly. Chairs can start to look real clownish real quick if you taper things too much (at least in my experience). I’ll sneak up on it with the next iteration.
Despite all these flaws, I’m pretty happy with the chair, especially for a first draft. Several people have asked me questions about the chair’s design. Here are some answers.
Does it feel like sitting in a dentist chair? The seat rakes back dramatically! Nope. The rake of the back is about what you get in a Morris chair (it’s 25° off 90°). It’s definitely not a dining chair, but it’s a nice lounger.
Why is it so low to the ground? Earlier chairs tend to be lower for a number of reasons. This one is 15”, which is only 3” lower than a modern chair. Again, I think this is for lounging. The seat height matches a lot of Morris chairs I’ve studied.
Why isn’t the seat saddled? Vernacular chairs don’t feature as much saddling as factory chairs or city chairs. Many vernacular chairs have zero saddling. This is fixed with a cushion or sheepskin. It’s my opinion that saddling is not the No. 1 factor in a chair’s comfort.
What’s with the chunky crest rail? It looks wrong. Actually, I got the crest rail pretty darn right (thanks again Mark!). It adds greatly to the comfort of the chair and suits the shoulders. It also gives a solid feel as you lean back. I think it looks chunky only until you get used to it. Then it looks right.
What’s next? Usually I dive in and rebuild a design a few more times to get things closer to a final design. But I’m going to stay my hand here. Lucy and I are headed to Ireland this fall to meet Mark, see chairs and do some romantic stuff. I’m going to let the real Gibson chairs dictate my next move.
I love all the little custom touches people add to their Dutch tool chests – drawers, tissue dispensers (no lie) and the various tool racks. On Saturday, I got to see a new variation on the lid.
During our most recent open day, we had a bit of an invasion force from Canada, with a supporting force from their U.S. friend. Jeremy (@jmawworks) bought along his Dutch tool chest and a chair he’d recently built with Caleb James. Ric (@fairwoodworking) brought along a bunch of of his lathe-less pencils and pens.
This isn’t the first time that people have turned our open day into a show-and-tell event. And we love it.
The lid on Jeremy’s Dutch chest is interesting because it is hinged from the front edge. You pull the lid toward you. And there’s a massive chisel rack on the inside of the lid. Clever.
In the second video, he shows off the drawer in the compartment below and uses the word “unit” one too many times for my tastes.
At parties put on by my wife’s co-workers, who are television journalists, people sometimes ask me what I do for a living (and sometimes they don’t – the black beard is off-putting). After I explain the woodworking and writing thing, they follow up with:
Like sports? Nope.
Play golf? Nope.
What church do you go to? None.
Belong to any clubs? Nah.
Politics? Please no.
Hobbies? Woodworking.
I then salute them for trying. I honestly am the most boring person in social situations. To be fair I enjoy music and food at a deep level. But that never comes up when the Reds are in last place in the league (information that Lucy has supplied to me).
Here’s how twisted it gets. As a relief from the stress of making furniture for a living, I make furniture. I usually keep a chair or two in parts under my bench that I can pull out when I have a few minutes at the end of the day. Working out a crazy angle or joint gives me immense peace.
It’s a guilty pleasure. These pieces rarely make me any real money – I give them away or sell them for the cost of materials. But I honestly think they keep me out of therapy and off medication. And I can honestly see how our craft helps people who suffer from PTSD, depression, addiction or worse.
I know it sounds like I’m warming you up for a book like “Shopcraft as Soulcraft,” or some such. But scratch that idea. I don’t think those “why we make stuff” books are for people who actually make stuff. Those books are intended only to create more thinking about making – not actual making. (Apologies. I know people love those sorts of books, but they don’t do much for me.)
If you really have the urge to make stuff, nothing can stop you. And honestly, you don’t need a book (not even a Lost Art Press book) to get started. A knife and a stick of wood is impetus enough. The rest will follow. It always does.
OK, I need you to sod off now. I have a tricky angle to work out on this Irish chair tomorrow (after I do 100 other things to make some money). And I need to dream of sticks, holes and really weird drilling angles.
