Lost Art Press

Photographing the Tools in the Studley Tool Chest – and a Repair

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Most of this trip to visit the H.O. Studley chest has been about documenting every tool in the chest. Not just the tools, but counting every single thing in every single drawer.

As we took the tools out and Don Williams was documenting the panel arrangement, he found that one of the ebony supports was damaged. “Damaged” ain’t the right word. In Arkansas, we would have said “it done blowed up.”

A quick review of our photo record from the last three years confirmed that this damage had occurred before our first encounter with the chest (cue the “whew,” and we all changed our underwear). With the permission of the owner of the chest, Don repaired the damage.

Some details for Studley nerds. The ebony support had been repaired twice before with PVA glue. PVA doesn’t adhere to ebony well because of its density, so it’s no surprise that the glue failed. Twice.

Don carefully removed the PVA by scraping and picking at it.

To re-glue the part, he prepared a solution of nine parts of liquid hide glue and one part glycerine from the drugstore. It did two things: increased the glue’s stickiness and reduced its tendency to fracture.

After applying the glue, he clamped the part together using teflon tape, wrapping and tying it around the part. Then he allowed it to dry overnight.

Yesterday, we also shot this short video on how Narayan Nayar goes about photographing every object in the chest. Good stuff.

— Christopher Schwarz

The Cutting Edges of H.O. Studley

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The point of this blog entry is that you can sharpen a tool in a dozen different ways – your way, my way or the way of a dead guy. In short: Don’t be a dullard.

For the last few days I have immersed myself in the cutting edges made (presumably) by H.O. Studley, a Massachusetts piano maker who created a legendary wall-hanging tool chest. His tool chest is a testament to his skill. It is flawless in almost every way, from the design to the tools’ composition to the craftsmanship of the chest itself.

So what sort of sharpener was he?

To take a stab at this question, I spent most of today looking closely at every cutting edge in the chest. From what we know about this chest, the tools have been mostly on mothballs since Studley left the trade in the early part of the 20th century. So there is a chance that the edges on the tools are actually his edges.

I looked at every edge in the chest under high magnification and compared them all to one another. I suspect Studley was the last sharpener of many of the tools based on the consistency of many of the edges, from the augers to the planes to the chisels to the marking gauges. The pattern of scratches left on the tools was quite consistent. So if I were H.O. Studley, here is what I would tell you about my sharpening regimen.

1. I like a convex bevel. Nearly all of the edges I observed had a slightly convex bevel. A couple tools had evidence of a hollow grind in the middle that was in the process of being removed by sharpening the bevel (making it convex).

2. I like cambered edges on my planes. Nearly every edge of the plane blades (blocks, smoothers, jacks and try) had a cambered cutting edge. Many of the edges were significantly relieved at the corners.

3. I sharpen the entire bevel. Only one tool had any evidence of a micro-bevel.

4. I lap the backs of my irons and chisels. All of the tools in the chest have lapped backs. The lapping is not to a mirror sheen, but there is evidence of significant and continuous work on the backs.

5. I lift my plane irons slightly when I polish the backs. Over and over I saw evidence that the very tip of the back was polished to a higher degree than the metal behind the tip. And (using a machinist straightedge) I could see that the tip of the back was ever-so-slightly dubbed from this polishing. The polishing on the backs was heavier on the bevel-up planes than on the bevel-down planes.

You can take the above information and twist it however you like. Studley was a hand-sharpener. He sharpened the entire bevel. He did something similar to the ruler trick – though he probably didn’t use a ruler. He knew that he needed two intersecting surfaces to create a sharp and durable edge.

Or maybe it was someone in the Studley family who knew this and sharpened all the edges in the chest. Maybe it was the family’s lawyer who acquired the chest. Maybe it was some compulsive sharpener at the Smithsonian who ran wild through the chest while it was in the care of the institution.

The truth is, we don’t know. But we can guess. And my guess is that most of these edges were from the hand of H.O. Studley. And with the help of some incredible photography technology we’re using, you’ll be able to see this for yourself when we publish the book on H.O. Studley in the next two years.

— Christopher Schwarz

Note: All the photos with this blog entry were taken by Narayan Nayar.

Other Kinds of Joint Stools

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I’ve made lots of joint stools over the years. Right now, I have a few underway, (see above) and a joined “form” to go with them. A form is just a stretched-out joint stool, such as this one I shot in Derbyshire a few years back.

Surviving examples from early New England are not common, I can think of maybe a dozen or so. But in England, these things abound in all shapes and sizes. I use examples from both places for inspiration when I’m making stools.

In my research I have collected names for stools from probate inventories, and sometimes you can see what the people were looking at as they made the list. Other times I’m still scratching my head. The quotes that follow are from inventories in New England and old England.

“(T)wo little joyne stooles”  – I have two little kids, so that was easy enough.

I haven’t made any “busted stools (worth) 1s6d” yet, but this example tested my mettle.

“(T)urkey worke stooles” are upholstered stools covered in wool that looks like a Turkish carpet. Usually it’s turkey-work chairs you see, such as this one.

Now, if I can just find someone who can make turkey-work covers, then I’d make an upholstered stool. Another name for an upholstered stool is “wrought stoole,” and Jennie Alexander made one we put in the book “Make a Joint Stool from a Tree.” That example was upholstered by our colleague, furniture historian Bob Trent.

I hope to not need “a close stoole 8s,” but sometimes it’s not necessarily a stool of ease, but just a stool with an enclosed box in it. I have made one of those by fitting a bottom into the aprons. You can nail the bottom to the lower edges of the aprons, or fit it into grooves in the apron’s inside faces. Then just hinge the seat instead of pegging it down.

One last use for a joined stool shows up in a non-period term that I hear a lot from visitors from the United Kingdom, usually old-timers. “Coffin” stool, like in William Hogarth’s series of engravings in “The Harlot’s Progress.”

And the phrase “6 joined stools of the worser sort….” Well, it doesn’t say “worst” sort, so I guess some I have made are “worser” than others. So I keep trying to get them better.

— Peter Follansbee, one of the authors of “Make a Joint Stool from a Tree.”

Help Build ‘The Furniture of Necessity’

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The central idea in my next book, “The Furniture of Necessity,” is that there is a type of furniture that escaped the whims of fashion and has remained unchanged through the centuries because it is useful, simple, sturdy and (in a way) beautiful.

This is the furniture of the typical North American family that could never afford a highboy, a secretary or a carved bedstead. It is plain because ornamentation is expensive. It is sturdy because disposable furniture is a recent idea. And it is beautiful because we have always tried to shape our surroundings to please us.

You can call it “vernacular” furniture, but I’ve never liked that word because it’s a 10-dollar word used to describe a 2-dollar idea.

The furniture is fascinating to me because I see it as fundamentally different from high forms where the design is paramount, the materials are shaped to that design, and the techniques require a large kit of tools and significant skill.

What you see with the “furniture of necessity” is that the design is driven more by the materials than by a sketch or pattern book. The depth of a chest is dictated by the widest board on hand. Ripping a board down or gluing a panel up is a waste of time and effort. And in fact the entire chest’s design flows from that beginning width.

The techniques employed will focus on the fewest cuts, the fewest tools and the joints that will give the piece the strength it requires for hard, daily use.

And, most interestingly, I am finding these pieces are dictated by an inner brilliance and efficiency that can be decoded only by constructing the piece.

That’s why I’m writing this blog entry.

As I have built these different forms during the last couple years, I have stumbled on small flashes of insight into the minds of the original builders. For example, when building a six-board chest, here are some little things I’ve uncovered:

1. Why are the front and backs of these chests rabbeted? You can use shorter (cheaper) nails and assemble the chest by yourself.

2. Why are the nails through the lid and battens clinched into the moulding (it looks ugly at first)? It’s the only way to keep the lid flat.

3. Building these chests quickly is all about the order of operations. You can save time and material by cutting out your pieces in a very particular order.

4. A deep knowledge of the materials – pine, nails, paint – allows you to defeat many seasonal expansion and contraction problems.

But I know there is more stuff we can learn from these chests. And that’s why I am going to take an unusual step in the coming weeks and publish plans, procedures and text from my forthcoming book here on this blog so you can take it into your shop and use it. All I ask is that you build the piece. Don’t just think about it. Build it. And if you find a better way – either big or small – to build the piece that you drop me a line to tell me what you found.

If it’s a new bit of information, you’ll definitely get credit in the book, and the rest of the readers will end up getting a better book because of your efforts.

In the next week or so, I’ll publish my chapter on six-board chests here free for downloading. Until then, take a look at this SketchUp file that show my procedure, step by step. There’s more than enough information in this file to build the chest. The book chapter will simply tell you why I did certain things and not others.

— Christopher Schwarz

Campaign Furniture at WIA

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I love football as much as I love a cold-water enema.

Wait. Perhaps I love it less.

In any case, if you are attending the Woodworking in America conference this weekend, be sure to stop by the Lost Art Press booth and the classroom where I’ll be teaching. We’ll have my campaign secretary on display, as well as a Roorkhee chair wrapped in genuine NFL football leather. Yup. It’s waterproof leather, as long as you sew it into some semi-spherical form so the inside is not exposed to the elements.

So let’s call it “weather resistant.”

It’s a nice and nubby leather. One female visitor to our shop (who shall remain nameless) commented: If you took off all your clothes and sat on it, it looks like it would give you a nice massage.

Something else to note: Ty Black, my shop assistant who is shown napping in the chair and fully clothed thank goodness, will soon be offering leather and canvas kits for Roorkhee chairs. These will be for sale through the Lost Art Press store. You’ll have a variety of leathers and sizes to choose from, including the one that is used to massage naked people.

So stay tuned. And do stop by our booth in the Marketplace and say hello.

— Christopher Schwarz