By A.C. Horth, from “The Woodworker,” January 16, 1905. (Thank you to Buz Buzkirk for the generous gift of two fascinating early volumes!) NB: I would not read this excerpt while eating breakfast.I might not read this excerpt at all if you are a vegetarian or vegan.
We are told that glue is made from hoofs, horns, and other animal refuse, and many of us are quite content to take this explanation as it stands. But the more inquisitive woodworker, who likes a fuller description of things, will, perhaps, find the following account of the various processes in the manufacture of that substance with which he is so familiar, interesting.
The writer, a short time ago, accompanied by a camera and note book, journeyed to Bermondsey and soon located the works of Messrs. B. Young & Co., Ltd., by the odour of decaying bones. On entering the gates of the factory, the first thing the eye encountered was heaps and heaps of bones, horns, and fleshings (the latter are odd corners of hides which are useless for making into leather).
This refuse, continually being brought in by wagons, is sorted and arranged in different heaps, the fleshings being carefully picked out for making the best glue and size, the bones and hoofs being used for making glue of inferior strength.
The most striking point about a glue factory is the absence of waste. One might say that every particle of the material which enters the factory is used up in some way and has a certain value; and, considering the fact that the glue makers utilise the refuse of the tanners, it is astonishing to an outsider to see how everything is accounted for.
We see many instances of the care which is exercised to avoid waste, before the glue is extracted from the offal. This is particularly apparent in the case of fleshings, which are overhauled and all pieces with hair or wool attached treated separately in order to detach and save these useful materials. Such hair and wool is dried, cleared, and packed into bales, to be eventually used by the blanket manufacturers, in making a cheap variety of rug.
The fleshings are placed in revolving drums and thoroughly washed with lime; the drums being fitted with racks which keep the fleshings in continual movement. The next stage carries them through the curing vats, where they are thoroughly impregnated with acid to remove the lime and render them fit for the boiling pans. Under the influence of steam, the gelatine is dissolved, leaving a very small proportion of refuse. This process is continued until there is no trace of glutinous substance in the fleshings. The liquid is run off into coolers, oblong boxes, in which the glue is allowed to set.
When the glue is set, it is divided into two cakes and placed on a table, and, by means of a wire, cut into slices, placed on a frame covered with netting, and taken to the drying sheds to harden.
We have yet only considered glue-making from fleshings; we have still the heaps of bones and horns to account for, so will now describe the process they undergo. A glance at the bones will show of scraps of dried flesh adhering to them, which are no use for making glue; yet these are by no means wasted. The bones with the attached flesh are placed in heated drums, fitted with revolving wires, which tear off the flesh, leaving the bones quite clean. This dried flesh, now in the form of dust, makes a valuable manure, and is packed into small bags.
The bones are next placed into a large cylinder, the glue is extracted under high pressure, and finally, when quite finished with, are ground up, and form another bye-product, namely bone manure, for which there is a great demand.
Continuing our tour through the works, we pass through the size room, where hundreds of small barrels are being filled with a bright golden liquid. This is size – the size for which this firm is so renowned. It comes from the fleshings, and great care is bestowed upon its manufacture to get it to a uniform strength and colour.
We next look at another room, in which the oil (which, naturally, is extracted with the glue) is refined. Here is another example of the way bye-products are utilised. Another room is devoted to the manufacture of concentrated size, which is a specially-made and strong form of glue ground up into a powder. Amateurs will find that to buy concentrated size is better than buying ordinary glue, as it keeps well in the packets, and is more convenient to use than the large cakes of glue.
We had a look at one of the large drying sheds, open on all sides, but fitted with hundreds of racks, containing cakes of glue, which, when thoroughly hardened, are washed and packed up ready for market.
In passing through the works, it was impossible to avoid noticing the great care bestowed on the manufacture of the glue in all its stages, and, considering the dirty nature of the work, the neatness of the various departments impressed us greatly. The writer is greatly indebted to the Management for their kindness in allowing him to visit the works and take the necessary photographs, which, in many cases, caused considerable inconvenience.
USING THE STANLEY UNIVERSAL PLANE. For cutters wider than 1/4 in. the sliding section is used to support the cutter at the near side. Since the sliding section is adjustable in height, it is important to see that the cutter has the same projection at both sides.
The following is excerpted from Volume III of “The Woodworker: The Charles H. Hayward Years.” First published in 1950, the book is beautifully illustrated by Hayward and contains the kind of spare prose that made him the best woodworking author of the 20th century. Like a good woodworking joint, Hayward’s text contains nothing superfluous and lacks nothing important to the task at hand.
This can be one of the simplest operations; it can also be one of the most awkward. To an extent it depends upon the tools available, but it is chiefly a matter of whether the groove has to be stopped, is straight or curved, the direction of the grain, and its position near to or away from the edge. We deal here with straightforward grooving, and shall follow next month with stopped grooves.
Perhaps the simplest examples of grooving are the parts of a door with grooved-in panels. It is merely a matter of setting the grooving plane to the required distance from the edge, adjusting the depth stop, and taking the plane right through. You can use either the wooden plough, or one of the special metal grooving planes. Let us consider first the setting of the plane, dealing first with the wooden plough.
Setting the Wood Plough. Select the cutter of the required width (there are generally eight), sharpen it square, and insert it so that the groove on its under-surface rests upon the metal edge of the sole piece (see Fig. 2). Set it so that the cutting edge has the required projection, and tap in the wedge. A fairly heavy shaving can be taken in softwood and when the grain is straight, but hardwoods and awkward grain require a fine cut.
Release the wedges holding the arms, and slide the fence until it is the required distance from the cutter. Press in one wedge thumb-tight, test with a rule to see that the fence is parallel with the metal sole, and push in the remaining wedge. Test once again to make sure, and tap home both wedges, tapping each lightly in turn. The depth gauge is generally controlled by a thumbscrew at the top, and this can be turned to give the groove depth.
Using the Plough. Start at the far end of the wood, and remove a shaving a few inches long. Then at each subsequent stroke bring the plough a little farther back as in Fig. 3. The advantage of this is that the tool is less likely to drift from the edge, since it runs into the groove it has already worked. Be careful always to press well against the side of the wood for the same reason, and work with the fence against the face side in every case. Otherwise, if the groove is not set to the exact centre, the parts will not go together flush.
It is essential that the plane is held upright, because, not only is the groove untrue otherwise, but there will be some curious results. At A, Fig. 4, the plough leans towards the user, and it is clear that the cutter will begin to operate at a different position from that intended. It will be nearer the face side. Then, as it sinks into the wood, it will either begin to bind and cease to cut, or the plough will be forced upright, when it will continue its groove in the wrong position. At B the groove will simply lean across at an angle.
Metal Plough. The setting of this depends upon the type. In the case of the small Record No. 040 and 043 planes the cutter is set in the stock about flush with the sole, and the lever cap screw lightly tightened. The cutter is then lightly tapped forward to give the required cut, and the screw finally tightened. Never strike the body of the plane to bring the cutter in; loosen the screw and withdraw it. The fence is slid on to the arm, tightened in the required position, and the depth gauge set.
In the case of the 050 A plane, a sliding section is provided to support the cutter at the near side, and it is the screwing up of this that clamps the cutter. When setting, therefore, the screw should be lightly turned only. This enables the final setting of the cutter to be made with the adjustment screw, after which the fixing screw is finally tightened. A small screw to the rear of the cutter is provided to help in keeping the sliding section parallel with the main stock. Fence and depth gauge are set as before.
The larger Record Multi-plane (405) and the Stanley 45 have their cutters tightened by means of a tapered bolt. The cutter is thus secured to the main stock only, independently of the sliding section. The latter is slid on afterwards so that it is level with the near edge of the cutter, or stands in a trifle. On no account let the cutter stand in from the sliding section, because this will cause binding. The fence has two sets of holes so that it can be fixed in a high or low position, whichever is the more convenient. A fine screw adjustment is provided on the depth gauge, and, after setting, the lock nut is tightened.
Setting for the Stanley Universal plane, No. 55, is similar, but, since the sliding section is adjustable in height, it is necessary to set this so that the cutter has the same projection on both sides. Slacken the lock nuts before turning the adjusting screw. Another point about this plane is that, since the fence can be set at an angle, it is important to see that it is upright before setting the plane for normal square grooving. Fig. 1 shows the Universal plane in use.
Some metal ploughs are provided with spurs which fit in recesses in the sides of both the main stock and sliding section. Their purpose is to cut the sides of the groove when working across the grain. They are unnecessary when grooving with the grain, and should be set in the neutral position. When they are in use, the plane should be drawn backwards for a couple of strokes to make sure that the groove sides are cut. Otherwise the grain is liable to tear out.
Using the Metal Plough. The use of the metal plough is similar to that of the wood type, but lubrication is more essential. A pad of cotton wool soaked in linseed oil is handy, or a wax candle can be drawn along the bearing parts.
As a guide to holding the plane square it is a help to press the fence against the side of the wood with the left hand as a preliminary step. You can soon tell when it is bearing on the wood, and this is the best guide as to when the plane is upright. You will soon get the feel of it. For a start, try the plane on a spare piece of wood, and examine the end of the latter as you progress to see whether your work is at all out. Clearly, the cutter must be sharpened perfectly square. This is partly because the bottom of the groove will otherwise be out of truth, but chiefly because a cutting edge which is not square may cause bad cutting or may make the plane fail to cut altogether. Take A, Fig. 5. At the main stock (left) the cutter has the required projection, but at the sliding section it has none at all. This will prevent the plane from cutting, and, to make it cut, the cutter will have to be set forward as at B. The result of this is to make the plane tend to grab at the side having the greater projection, and this will probably throw the groove out of truth.
When the grain is straight and parallel with the wood the shavings curl away sweetly and the work is clean. A difficulty occurs when the grain either runs at an angle or is curly. Consider Fig. 6, which shows a door frame. Since the plough has always to be worked from the face side to ensure the grooves being level throughout, it will work in the direction of the arrows shown at A, and will be working against the grain owing to the slope of the latter. By reversing the parts as at B before marking out, the plough can be made to work with the grain in every case.
In Fig. 7 the grain runs across the edge at a decided angle, and the probable result would be that the groove would tear out at one edge as shown. To overcome this the groove position should be cut in first with the cutting gauge as shown inset. This will ensure the surface being clean. If it tears out down below it will not matter.
Many metal grooving planes are fitted with small spurs or cutters, the purpose of which is to cut the fibres when working across the grain. If not used the grain would be liable to tear out. They are not needed when working with the grain and they should be reversed into the neutral position. Small set screws hold them in position. One will be found on the main stock at the off side, and the other on the sliding section at the near side. Both are just in front of the cutter.
SELF PORTRAIT (1980). Steel, wood, aluminum, found objects. 60″ x 32″ x 82″. Michael says this piece reflects the experience of building his own house while living on the land. He had to defer making art to making the house, and he says there were a lot of difficulties in the building process.
The following is excerpted from “The Difference Makers” by Marc Adams. Since 1993, Adams has invited hundreds of the best craftspeople to teach at his woodworking school in Franklin, Ind., which has grown to become the country’s (if not the world’s) largest. Every year, Adams has expanded the school and brought in a different mix of new instructors and veteran ones. As a result, he has figured out who is the best. He’s seen their work. He’s seen them at work. This excerpt features Michael Cooper – craftsman, sculptor, and inventor of impossible things.
Michael Cooper has been fooling around with wood and metalworking since he was a kid and has never stopped. He has a degree in commercial art from San Jose State College (now San Jose State University) and an M.F.A. in sculpture from the University of California, Berkeley. He has taught drawing, 3D design, furniture design and sculpture at several California colleges for 34 years. He is a superb teacher who is revered by students and colleagues alike, but in 2005 he decided to shift from teaching to totally focusing on his artwork.
He has won numerous awards and grants throughout the years, including a Fellowship in Sculpture awarded by the American Academy in Rome (Italy), and a Craftsmen’s Fellowship Grant from the National Endowment for the Arts. In 1993, he was presented with the President’s Award for Outstanding Service at De Anza College. His work is on display at several museums and public displays, including the Art Gallery of Western Australia, the Oakland Museum of California, Queen Victoria Museum & Art Gallery, and the Sam and Alfreda Maloof Foundation for Arts and Crafts. His work has been featured in books, magazines and newspapers around the world.
Recently the Museum of Craft and Design in San Francisco did a retrospective on Michael’s work titled “A Sculptural Odyssey, 1968-2011.” This led to a book written about his life as a teacher, artist and sculptor. Michael is a master at bending wood and adding odd bits and pieces together to make unique sculptures that are collected by patrons around the world.
On the Professional Side
Michael’s biggest initial career transition was deciding to leave the commercial art profession and switch to making sculptures in the late 1960s. He wasn’t sure what direction his new vocation would take, but he was excited about the prospects.
He returned to San Jose State College and began working on his Master of Fine Arts. There Michael met instructor Sam Richardson, who encouraged him to start checking out gallery shows in the San Francisco area. These shows featured all kinds of art, including sculpture. Although Michael knew little about contemporary sculpture, the more shows he attended the more he developed a passion for creating three-dimensional objects.
San Jose State College had a large art department in the mid-1960s, and new materials and processes were being explored, including fiberglass, polyfoam and lacquer. During that time, John Battenberg and Fletcher Benton, both commercially successful artists, joined the faculty. Fletcher eventually became a mentor to Michael and gave him the encouragement to continue to pursue his sculptural work. But the real awakening came when a friend paid Michael’s way to the Los Angeles milestone exhibition “American Sculpture of the Sixties,” a national survey of the best contemporary sculpture at that time. This exhibition opened Michael’s eyes to what was possible in contemporary sculpture and encouraged him to explore areas that were unknown.
“I am, for the most part, self-taught,” he says. “I had always been good with exploring new techniques but needed direction in the area of theme. I found what I needed in kinetic sculpture.”
His early works used a variety of materials including wood, aluminum, steel, motors, magnets, gearing and electrical components. In 1969, Michael finished his Master of Fine Arts degree at U.C. Berkeley and immediately began teaching art classes at Foothill College while continuing to make and show his own works, which were mostly kinetic sculptures.
UNTITLED (1970). Steel, wood, gas motors, rubber. 156″ x 60″ x 28″. Michael calls this, “an important early piece in so many ways.” It features his first metal lathe and Bridgeport milling work. Photo by Michael Chase
In 1975, Michael shifted gears from kinetic sculpture to working exclusively with wood using bent lamination techniques as a form of sculpture. That year he made three pieces: “Captain’s Chair,” “Soapbox Racer” and “Music Stand.” His work was well received, which inspired Michael to continue to explore wood laminations with organic forms.
In 1976, he started the “Gun Series,” and in 1977 was subsequently given a Society for the Encouragement of the Contemporary Arts (SECA) Award, which included a one-person show at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. One of the best things to happen during that hectic year of preparing for the San Francisco show was that he met his soon-to-be wife, Gayle Stetter.
The late 1970s were exciting times for Michael. After the SECA award, he received a monetary grant from the National Endowment for the Arts. In 1979, he was awarded a fellowship from the Crafts Council of Australia. This grant was titled “Craftsman in Industry” and led to Michael creating sculpture in two furniture factories, as well as lecturing at various colleges, crafts and industry groups.
Following the Australian grant, Michael traveled to Rome on a fellowship at the American Academy in Rome. Here he was given a year to explore his work among other fellows and the historic art of Italy.
SOAPBOX RACER (1975). Red oak, polyester fabric. 156″ x 52″ x 28″. This was built for the SFMOMA First Artists’ Soapbox Derby. To operate, you lay on your back inside the chassis and steer with your feet using cables attached to the rear wheel. Photo by Michael Chase
Though Michael was a big part of the San Francisco Bay area art scene, his sales were always sporadic. Fortunately, that is where teaching became handy to help support his work. In 1977, he left Foothill College for De Anza College in Cupertino, Calif. There he taught sculpture, drawing, 3D design and furniture design. Teaching became a rewarding career, and for 35 years he enjoyed his connection with his students. In 1981, he married Gayle, and the two moved to Sebastopol, Calif.
In 1986, Michael and Gayle bought an 81⁄2-acre slice of heaven with meadows, trees and a seasonal creek, with the thought of someday building and living on that property. The first building was Michael’s new studio. For the next 21⁄2 years they camped on the property while they designed and built the house. At first there was no water, electricity or sealed roof. In time they ran water lines and electrical, and sealed the roof.
Before they moved into their new house, Michael began exploring sculpture that included the human figure. “This was a huge departure for me and was spurred on by my time at the American Academy in Rome and the historic art on location,” he says. This new type of sculpture led Michael to build a room-sized 3D replicator. Although this huge machine didn’t achieve the final perfect finish, it did remove a lot of the excess material before the final finesse could take place in his work.
In 1993, Michael’s father died of a heart attack, which devastated him. This eventually led to a huge diversion in his work. “I stopped making art after my father’s death and bought a rough 1933 Ford pickup. I had been interested in hot rods since I was very young. I started modifying the basic body, and what had seemed a simple project soon became another art project.” He called the rebuilt pickup truck “Tubester.” The hot rod endeavor was just what he needed. Michael considers that project to be an epiphany in the overall artistic direction of his work by incorporating metal fabrication and machining, and a return to drawing and designing on paper.
The making of Tubester also involved the magazine Street Rodder, which documented the project through 20 construction articles. It took 81⁄2 years to complete the project, and since 2001 the Tubester has been shown extensively. This was the project that led to more commissions that continue to help fund his ongoing work.
In 2008, Michael received a Windgate Fellowship Grant through the Museum of Craft and Design in San Francisco. The project Michael pursued was a survey of his sculpture during a 40-year period. Select pieces from his body of work have traveled to the Bellevue Arts Museum in Bellevue, Wash., the Fuller Craft Museum in Brockton, Mass., and the Museum of Craft and Design in San Francisco for the final showing.
In 2016, Michael was selected to be an American Craft Council Master Fellow, which is an artist’s dream award. Michael continues to build and design in Sebastopol, Calif.
On the Personal Side
I have seen a real live planetary transport machine, I’m sure of it. Because it’s the only way Michael Cooper can get back and forth to whatever planet he comes from. He is way too talented, innovative, creative, skillful, original, crazy, witty and flat-out ingenious to come from anywhere on earth – except California. Oh guess what, he’s from the middle of that state.
When you consider his vast body of work, it becomes easy to forget that he had a real job of teaching and his sculptural work was a side line. From 1969 to 2004, he taught full time at the college level. He is a superb teacher, admired by students, respected by his colleagues and one of the crowning jewels for MASW. His first workshop was the summer of 2008, when he co-taught a class on bending wood. He arrived a few days early to unload about 50 pounds of air grinding tools along with several examples of his work. It was also the first time I had ever met someone from another planet; surprisingly he looked like any other earthling.
RIDE (2008). Steel, aluminum, wood, gas engines, pneumatic air system. 67″ x 77″ x 82″. More or less a hopping helicopter chair. Photo by Michael Chase
Afraid he might vaporize students, I decided to be on hand for his first day of lecturing, just in case I needed to contact the Men in Black. His first demo was to take hundreds of veneer strips, put glue between each layer, and then twist them into some alien shape. The next day when he removed the clamps every piece fell on the floor – the glue failed. Turns out the glue we had purchased had an inaccurate date label, which made for a great teachable moment. This also proved that he really is human.
Since then, Michael has taught several workshops at MASW and no matter what other workshops are taking place, he always steals the show. Not because he has the kind of personality that sucks the wind out of the building, but because his method of work is so mesmerizing it just begs an audience. I once asked him about how he prepares for a lecture and he told me that he first tries to calm his stomach. It turns out he gets nervous when he lectures. Imagine that a man of his talent, who has made his living as a teacher, still finds intimidation in standing in front of a group – proof again that he is human.
John Lavine, former editor of Woodwork Magazine, once wrote “surveying a roomful of Michael Cooper’s sculpture, a viewer can easily be overwhelmed by the riotous profusion of materials and shapes. But after your eyes have settled on any of the myriad of details in this work, the question that inevitably follows is: How did he do that?” The answer is simple: He’s a master of any material he touches. Metals, plastics, woods and any variety of found objects are like clay in his hands, capable of any shape he desires.
Yes, he is a genius “maker” with skill unlimited. His work is deeply complex and sometimes dysfunctional. Often it seeks to make a social statement; other times it reflects the life of growing up in the California hot-rod culture. His work involves impeccable craftsmanship, both technically and conceptually, and woodworkers everywhere are in awe of his skill. Both Michael Hosaluk and Michael Fortune have posters of Michael Cooper’s work hanging in their shops. That says something.
I’ve had the pleasure to get to know Michael on a personal basis. He is a soft-spoken pacifist who loves to make things that cause us to think. Michael says, “For adults, I would like them to look at a piece and enjoy trying to figure it out: OK, what does this do?” And: “Oh, I see. This does that.” When looking at his work, which spans nearly 50 years, it’s easy to see how he continues to push himself both through his skill and his designs. It’s like he is in competition with himself, always trying to outperform his last work. That drive keeps him young at heart and always on the move (from one planet to the next).
We are in the middle of prepping hundreds of parts for a July 11-15 stick chair class in partnership with The Chairmaker’s Toolbox, and I am setting aside my aversion to plastic for this one moment.
As Megan Fitzpatrick and I prepare the parts – straightening the grain, octagonalizing the bits and sometimes tapering them, I sort through them. I group the parts by color and grain. And I wrap each bundle of parts into packets with a minimal amount of stretch-wrap plastic.
There are packets of legs, short sticks, long sticks and stretchers. When all the stock prep is over, I’ll group all the packets into 10 chair kits that are matched for color and grain.
It takes a lot of extra work, but I do this for two reasons. One, it makes for better chairs. Two, even the nicest people in the world become total dork-holes when it comes to picking parts willy-nilly from a big communal pile of parts during a woodworking class.
Inevitably, one or two people end up with all the exceptional boards. And the slow students, who need all the help they can get, end up with the dregs.
To combat this problem, I started picking and grouping wood for students years ago to avoid this “Lord of the Firs” approach to distributing parts. And I have stuck to this philosophy to this day.
Why am I telling you this? If you ever find yourself facing a pile of parts in a classroom, please be kind. Don’t be a hoggy-dog and take all the best parts for yourself. Someone is watching. And they are judging you.
And Furthermore….
If you are taking a woodworking class this summer, here’s a little tip that might make you feel better about your performance during the class.
If you follow a lot of instructors, schools on Instagram, Facebook and Twitter (like I do), you’ll see a lot of posts that exclaim, “These students are KILLING it.” Or “These students are amazing! Hardworking! Insanely Talented! Oblong!”
I’ve taken enough classes and taught enough classes to tell you that this piffle is either:
Unconditional positive regard (that is undeserved).
Marketing for the school/instructor.
Woodworking in a classroom environment is both tense and fun. In my experience, everyone struggles a bit – that’s what happens when you learn stuff. There are always failures in a class – a mis-cut, a broken part, a brain fart.
If you struggle in woodworking classes (I sure do, both as a student and an instructor), then you are perfectly normal. All those social media posts are just the gauzy, filtered unreality that clogs our phones and likely contributes to a lot of self-esteem problems.
Bottom line: If you make it through a class without locking yourself in the bathroom while sobbing, throwing your tools against the wall, or making a through-mortise in your hand, then you have succeeded. (All these things have happened in classes.)
But I will say in all honesty that every student in my classes has indeed KILLED IT (as long as “it” is a tree).
The following is excerpted from “Virtuoso: The Tool Cabinet and Workbench of Henry O. Studley,” by Donald C. Williams, with photographs by Narayan Nayar. This book is the first in-depth examination of one of the most beautiful woodworking tool chests ever constructed and presents the first-ever biography of Studley (1838-1925), a piano and organ builder in Quincy, Mass. After a brief stay at the Smithsonian, the cabinet was sold to a private collector and hasn’t been seen by the public for well over a decade. Studley’s workbench has never been on public view.In this excerpt, Nayar’s approach to capturing the monumental Studley Cabinet is reverent and moving.
In the winter of 2010, Don Williams and I calculated that principal photography and primary study of the Studley ensemble could be accomplished in a single three-day trip. Photographically, we’d have one day to shoot the tool cabinet and bench, another day to shoot the tools and a day to spare for contingencies. Don had already visited the ensemble, taken survey pictures and had worked out with the owner some general rules about how we could work with the cabinet. By studying Don’s photos and making some assumptions about the room in which we would be working, I formulated a plan for a three-day shoot and packed my gear accordingly.
It took only five minutes standing in front of the tool cabinet and bench for those plans to disintegrate. Within hours, we were discussing follow-up trips and wondering how to talk the owner into letting us take the cabinet off the wall.
Principal photography ended five trips later and spanned roughly four years.
The overwhelming majority of images in “Virtuoso” are forensic. After all, the primary goal of the project was to document the cabinet, its contents and accompanying workbench both photographically and historically. To accomplish this, we worked methodically through every artifact, capturing every detail at great resolution from multiple angles. Images from this important documentary aspect of the project intentionally forgo any creative interpretation or photographic flair. They are shot with flat, diffuse lighting on simple backgrounds to reveal Studley’s ensemble with an almost clinical objectivity.
I refer to these photographs as “necessary” images – i.e. photographs taken to address the dearth of public information about the cabinet, its contents and maker. The process to capture these images was production-like, but in no way did that diminish our enthusiasm. Many, if not all, of the objects in the cabinet are not only perfectly executed, but also bear some witness to Studley himself – be it in the way the blades evince his sharpening technique, to the patina and wear patterns formed by his hands as he used his tools. Discovering these details as we worked through the collection delighted us and reminded us how important it was to shine light on these details for others.
Like thousands of people, I became acquainted with H.O. Studley many years ago through one of the famous Taunton posters. These posters feature the cabinet in its “natural” state – upright and open-kimono, enticing and not unlike a girlie magazine centerfold. Photographed in this pose and presented in two dimensions, the cabinet registers as an exquisite piece of graphic design, mesmerizing with its masterfully arranged contents, visual elements that crescendo and decrescendo, staccato accents of decorative inlays and the multi-layered tapestry of materials, color and texture. We gaze upon the poster as we would a painted masterwork, wondering what kind of mind would conceive such a thing and what kind of hands could bring it into this world.
Though the exterior of the cabinet benefits from the same care and precision of design and manufacture as its interior, it’s clear from a newspaper photo of Studley in front of the cabinet that the wide-open object is, in fact, its face. The Taunton posters have allowed the cabinet’s face to also represent the face of Henry O. Studley and, for many, of the very concept of master craftsmanship. So it somehow seems awkward to deem the ubiquitous, straight-on view of the cabinet a “necessary” image, as if the term relegates the most recognizable and revered glance of Studley’s masterpiece to mere documentation. But it’s only one view of an artifact that supplies infinite distinct and equally alluring views, and whereas extant appearances of the tool cabinet have more-or-less reduced our understanding of it to a single, postcard-like glance, “Virtuoso” has provided us the requisite space for exhaustive coverage and analysis. If the straight-on view of the cabinet is the necessary image, we felt an obligation to enrich everyone’s understanding of all that this single image contains: the cabinet’s layout, its suitability for use, its mechanical properties, its inner and sometimes hidden grandeur. The Studley tool cabinet is a woodworking fractal; as you zoom in on one detail, you not only see that detail in greater resolution, you discover a universe of new details.
We are proud to submit this collection of necessary images to the historical record. Until the day that holograms become widely available, this collection of documentary images should satisfy the factual needs of historians, artisans and connoisseurs of well-made objects. But the ensemble’s visual facts in and of themselves, however well-documented, were not enough for me. I placed a great deal of personal importance on ensuring at least some of the photographs in “Virtuoso” imparted more than a factual account of the Studley ensemble. Whereas the “necessary” images strive to capture the cabinet and its contents as physical forms, I wanted to find ways to visually convey its more metaphysical attributes. The cabinet alone has become for so many people so much more than a collection of tools in an elegant box – it has become legend. For me, it is no less than a testament to what our species is capable of. Studley’s tool cabinet represents the hope that with enough perseverance, the things we create or pursue can achieve some small fraction of its magnificence.
Having spent considerable time with the cabinet during the past few years, I can say without hesitation that the legendary status the cabinet has gained through that single image on the Taunton posters is well-deserved. I can also say that in this case, the legend is orders of magnitude less compelling than the real thing.
The First Five Minutes
Throughout the course of this project, I witnessed a dozen or so people encounter the H.O. Studley ensemble for the first time. I’ve noticed only two reactions to experiencing the cabinet in person. The first involves the liberal use of choice expletives. The second (and more common) reaction: several minutes of utter silence (though to be fair, this silence is often followed by the liberal use of choice expletives).
In person, the cabinet is far more than a three-dimensional poster. It is a monument.
I have been an armchair student of architecture and architectural history for a long time, and for several years in college I was fascinated with the Hagia Sophia. Captivated by its shifting but always-prominent role in several civilizations, I spent many hours reading its history, looking at images of its interior and exterior, and studying its incredibly ambitious engineering. I spent enough time with texts on the Hagia Sophia that I came to refer to it as “Sophie.”
Years later I traveled to Istanbul in a pilgrimage of sorts to Sophie. However academically familiar I may have been with her – however many photographs and architectural drawings I had pored over – walking through its nave and standing under its dome made my palms sweat and my head swirl. As is the case with many of the world’s great religious structures, the scale of the Hagia Sophia filled me with equal parts awe and insignificance. I spent a whole afternoon in the museum, wandering its main floor and upper balcony, looking up at the architectural details and murals, realizing that the building I thought I knew existed only in books. The Hagia Sophia was not Sophie, and only by visiting it in person could I feel the weight of its history, grasp the scale of its majesty and find inspiration even in its imperfections.
When encountering the Studley cabinet in person, I believe all first-timers experience an even more amplified version of what I felt in Istanbul. The Studley cabinet features architectural themes found in and on many of the world’s greatest monuments, and in the first five minutes you stand before the cabinet, your eyes can’t help but lead you through ornamental doors and make you gaze through myriad windows. You are compelled to follow fences that divide the interior into courtyards delineated by the lines and shadows of numerous arches, buttresses and columns. In those first five minutes you take a tour of a wood, metal, pearl and ivory palace so captivating and opulent that you forget that the cabinet is, in fact, smaller than you. Witnessing in person the masterpiece that one talented Mason created with his own two hands is as much an encounter with the sublime as standing in the shadows of structures many times its size, with masonry assembled by hundreds, if not thousands, of hands. It is no wonder that many people forget to speak when confronted with such concentrated grandeur. How does one capture this with a camera?
The truth is, one cannot. Not entirely, anyway. So the images in “Virtuoso” that carry the most personal significance for me are the ones that encapsulate some small fraction of the awe that overcomes anyone standing in front of the cabinet for those first five minutes. During the course of four years, I searched for ways to photographically convey the cabinet not as a postcard or a painting, but as an architectural space. Just as my Sophie could only ever exist on paper, for many of us, Studley has been to date a single image of a cabinet frozen in one quintessential pose. As you move through “Virtuoso,” you will, of course, see more of the H.O. Studley ensemble than has been historically possible for all but a select few. But if I’ve done my job, some of these images will bring you on the journey that I’ve been fortunate enough to take on your behalf during the last four years, and as you turn these pages, you’ll find yourself rendered mute, then apologizing to any sensitive souls within earshot.
