Shopmate Megan Fitzpatrick has watched me build 40 or 50 chairs during the last five years I’ve been working in my Covington workshop. As a result, she often jokes that she could probably teach chairmaking – even though she’s never finished building a stick chair.
So when she started checking over the construction drawings for “The Stick Chair Book,” she said something a bit alarming.
“Watching you build a chair makes it look easy,” she said. “These drawings make it look difficult.”
At first, I thought that perhaps my construction drawings were too detailed, too overwhelming or too… I don’t know. I looked them over and concluded that they were about right. They showed every important dimension and angle – no more. Plus, they communicated how the pieces fit together.
So what was the problem?
I think there’s a disconnect between how I build chairs in the shop and how I communicate that information to others.
Put another way: I could describe how to create an impressionist painting with information on brushes and paint mixing and approaching the canvas. Or I could give you a canvas with a paint-by-numbers scheme all set up for you – green here in area No. 12. And light blue in area No. 35.
Both approaches result in an impressionist painting. But which is better?
The answers is: I don’t know. For the last 25 years of my life, I have described to others how to build furniture using pictures and words – plus 15 years of teaching woodworking classes. And I have found that people learn differently. Some woodworkers need a detailed drawing that shows every relevant dimension and angle. Others need a rough sketch on a napkin with a few overall numbers.
In the end, both woodworkers can arrive at the same destination: A well-built piece with grace and beauty.
This book is an attempt to explore both approaches. The first 400 pages describe the operations involved in making stick chairs. For some woodworkers, this is all that is needed. Other woodworkers need to start with the mechanical drawings and then figure out the operations – the next 200 pages of the book. Neither approach is superior.
If you are bewildered by the mechanical drawings, skip them. If you are frustrated by the “that’s close enough” disclaimers, ignore them. Stick chairs can be built by engineers, potheads and pothead engineers.
So how does my brain work? When you take on the job of a translator, as I have, you have to embrace both sides. Accuracy and spontaneity are the angel and devil that sit on each shoulder. It’s a familiar fight in publishing. On one shoulder is the sober editor. The other has the drunken writer.
When I make tools, I can fuss over .0005”. When I design chairs, I wonder “does this rake and splay look like a jumping spider or a squashed squirrel?”
But I don’t expect (or encourage) you to become a human corpus callosum. Instead, take what you can from any book and leave the rest behind. Most of all, don’t get discouraged by the detailed measurements in the drawings or the vagaries in the text.
Or, as John Brown put it: “By all means read what the experts have to say. Just don’t let it get in the way of your woodworking.”
Above is all the wood in mid-prep for seven “Anarchist’s tool chests.” The lid panels and carcase front/back and ends still need to be cut to final width and length. I’m excited to soon be teaching again…but just looking at this picture makes me tired!
I don’t make many unequivocal statements, but here’s one: Some non-stringy species of white pine is the correct wood for a tool chest. And if you can get it, choose sugar pine or Eastern white pine. These are lightweight woods that are easy to work with hand tools, and they are typically less expensive in the U.S. than any hardwood, with the possible exception of poplar. And while poplar will work for a tool chest – as will any wood, really – it’s heavy and harder to dovetail than pine. And that will make your tool chest heavier than it needs to be.
Fully loaded, a sugar pine “Anarchist’s Tool Chest” weighs in the neighborhood of 200-225 lbs. (The hardware and choice of wood for tills and other interior bits will affect the weight, as, of course, will the specific tools inside.)
And while I’ve never weighed a pine Dutch tool chest fully loaded, I used to work out of a poplar one while teaching on the road, and I had a heck of a time lifting it in and out of my car. So I’m keeping one of the pine ones I’m building right now to make my peripatetic woodworking life just a little easier.
For the tool chest classes I teach here, I do my best to source beautiful, clear sugar pine, which is typically available in wide widths – the fewer pieces in panel glue-ups, the better. But every once in a while, someone will ask if they can prep their own wood for a class – and it’s usually for the anarchist’s tool chest class – the one for which the wood prep is the most demanding and most critical that it be good. I say sure…but you darn well better do a good job of it. A) I won’t have time during the class to fix any out-of-square edges for you and B) I won’t have on hand matching stock to replace a piece should something go terribly wrong. C) I don’t want to help lift your full-size oak or purpleheart tool chest into your car at the end of class.
But if you insist on bringing your own, below are the steps to follow (some of which are pretty basic…but you never know what people already know).
The flatter the wood, the easier it is to prep – and the more plain the grain, generally the easier it is to dovetail. I don’t want any points of cathedrals or bird’s eyes in my pins and tails (or knots, or course). So the first thing I do is to lay out rough cuts to avoid anything problematic. I start with the largest pieces (above, that’s the front and back of the ATC), and try my best to have all my glue-ups be only two pieces (you can see above that I typically have to use three pieces in at least some of the carcase and lid panels).
So first, I mark out all the pieces, and if they’re longer than 14″ or so, I rough cut them about 1″ overlong at the chop saw and about 1/2″ overwide at the band saw (or I joint one edge then cut them overwide at the table saw). For pieces that are shorter than 14″ (and therefore can’t safely go through the planer), I keep them attached to another piece until after the surfacing is done. You don’t, however, want to leave the pieces much longer than they need to be. The longer a board, the more likely it is to be twisted – the less of that you have to take out, the better. Because the more you have to remove from one surface to correct twist or a cup, the more will go into your dust collector.
In order to run the wood through the planer to get it flat (and all of it to the same thickness), you need one flat face; that face registers on the bed of the planer. If you’re good with a jointer plane, you may not need a jointer. If you’re decent with a jointer plane but have to prep wood for seven people and have three days to do it, you definitely want an electric jointer.
If you have a helical head on your jointer, you don’t have to worry much about grain direction, but run the stock in the correct direction anyway; it’s a good habit to adopt. The grain should be running downhill. And if there’s a crown in the board on one face, there’s probably a cup on the other. When you run the wood across the cutters, you want it supported as much as possible at the outside edges, so the cupped face should face down. If you’ve already arranged it with the grain running correctly but the cupped face up, simply flip the board end for end, before jointing it. (Odds are pretty good that the heart side will be facing up.)
With thick wood, you can get away with jointing it only enough to create flats at the outside edges to register on the planer bed. But the planer rollers will flatten thin wood…which will spring back after it exits the planer. So for 3/4″ (or thinner) stock, I always run the stock as many times as necessary across the jointer to flatten one face completely. And because I think it’s unsafe to have to push too hard, I’d rather make several light cuts than one deep cut; I usually have the cut set to no more than 1/16″
The knives are to the left of the wood; note how the grain is running “downhill” – when the cutters spin clockwise into the wood, they’re moving in the same direction as the grain is running out of the bottom of the wood. If you run the cutters against the grain, it can lift it up and tear it.
The crown of this board indicates that the other face need to go against the jointer bed. Were I to run it over the cutters like this, the board would rock.
After the final jointer pass, I stack the boards atop the planer, flat face down, with the last end that went over the jointer facing toward the planer mouth – that’s the way they get fed in (last off jointer, first in planer). Though again, if you have a helical cutter, it’s not (usually) that critical.
Stacked and ready to feed, with the jointed faces down. As I pull a board toward me for the first pass, the end that needs to go in the planer is the end already facing in that direction.
I follow the same steps every time I use the planer; that way, I never get turned around. As I pull pieces off the far end, I stack them back in the exact same orientation as they were run through the machine. Then if I have to run them again to get to a certain thickness and the first face is flat, I flip them end for end as I feed them into the planer for the second pass. And repeat. That way, I’m removing wood from both faces, and hopefully equalizing the moisture exchange. (And if I have someone catching for me, I make sure they don’t flip the boards as they stack them.) Same steps for the operator every time. And if the first face isn’t flat after one pass, the board is in the right direction without flipping it to simply run it through again.
And here’s the critical part for classes when it comes to thicknessing: I run all the wood that has to be the same thickness at the same time. I would never run, say, the front and back of a through-dovetailed carcase then come back three days later and run the ends. In order to avoid problems, all the pieces must be the exact same thickness – your best shot at achieving that is to do it all at once. I don’t care if the pieces are a hair over or under 7/8″ – I just care that they’re all the same.
Once all the stock is flat and to thickness, I joint one edge in preparation for cutting it to final size (even if I’ve already jointed an edge to cut a piece to rough width, I do it again, in case it got bashed up), and mark the jointed edge; that edge will run against the table saw’s fence.
This curlicue mark on the jointed edge helps me quickly know which edge is straight and flat.
But it’s the table saw work that scares me the most in folks prepping their own stock; if the pieces aren’t square, the person’s class experience is doomed – and I don’t want that. But if I have to take the time to correct problems, the other students in the class suffer. So at least one person (in addition to me) is going to be unhappy.
So I am ultra careful at the table saw to make sure my cuts are square. First, I rip the pieces to final width, making sure I keep the wood tight to the fence. Then I triple check that the crosscut fence is dead square to the blade, and before we got a reliable slider, I clamped like pieces together to make sure they were the exact same length. (Now I trust the stop on our slider. But I don’t trust the stop on your slider.)
As long at I don’t jam the workpieces against the stop, I am confident that our slider will cut multiple pieces to equal length. (But as you can see from my tape measure, I don’t yet trust the tape on the fence!)
So after setting my stop I raise it, then crosscut one end square (with the jointed-edge mark against the fence), then drop the stop, flip the board and cut it to length. Boom – two square ends, and the right length. Repeat.
Once all the pieces of that length are cut, I reset the stop and cut the mating pieces. And so on with the rest of the stock.
Before we had a sliding crosscut fixture, I used this shop-made sled. If the pieces were longer than the sled, there was no way to set a stop. So I crosscut one end of each like pieces, then carefully…so carefully…clamped them together to cut the final length of both at the same time. It was the only way I felt confident that the pieces would exactly match. And I also had to then make sure each pair stayed together.
Note that all of the above assumes no glue-ups. Throw wide panels into the mix and you add glue-ups to the prep. I’ll write about those in a few days.
My class prep cutlist for the Anarchist’s Tool Chest.
Republishing out-of-print books is one of the most technically challenging things we do at Lost Art Press. In a perfect world, it should be easy: Take the old files, send them to the new printer and start the presses.
In my entire career in publishing, however, that hasn’t happened once.
With every older book that we have republished, the original publisher has lost or destroyed the original files. While I’m sure this happens sometimes out of malice or laziness, most of the time it occurs because of a change in technology or ownership.
Quick example: When F+W Media acquired American Woodworker magazine, it inherited a tractor-trailer load of original files – photos, manuscripts, drawings, contracts etc. I saw these files when I stopped by the office about four years ago. What did F+W do with them? They are now in the landfill.
So when we set out to bring back Scott Landis’s two classic woodworking texts, “The Workbench Book” and “The Workshop Book,” I knew we would be in for a technical slog. There was, however, some good news. Landis had many original photos, which allowed us to create new dust jackets with crisp, high-resolution photos.
Also, the last publisher had a press-resolution pdf of “The Workbench Book.” That book was published in the early days of desktop publishing. So the book existed on film – one layer of film for each color. That film was digitized and reassembled into a pdf. Getting it on a modern press with modern aluminum color plates, however, was no small feat.
For “The Workshop Book,” on the other hand, there was nothing. No digital or physical files whatsoever. The only good news here was that Landis had a pristine first edition of the book that we could attempt to use to make a new edition.
I won’t dive too much into the technical details, but you can’t simply scan a printed color book with photos and republish it. Well, you can, but it will look like garbage.
Luckily, I’ve been working with a company that has developed a proprietary scanning process that can take apart printed color photos (called halftones) and separate them into digital color plates – one for each color, cyan, magenta, yellow and black. These digital plates can be processed and reassembled into something that looks damn good on press.
We hadn’t tried this process, however. So it was a gamble with tens of thousands of dollars.
Thankfully, the printed result looks great. Better than I could have ever hoped, really.
The interior of “The Workshop Book,” which looks indistinguishable from a book produced with traditional files.
Everyone on this project, from Landis down to the press operators, did everything they did to get these books right. Landis and his son even created some nice new diestamps for the cloth below the dust jackets. When these dust jackets wear out, the books will still look like a cohesive set.
And if these books ever go out of print again, it’s my hope that we have made it easier for some future publisher. All our contracts guarantee the author will receive all the publishing files we’ve created, which are stored digitally at multiple locations.
We hope you’ll consider adding “The Workbench Book” and “The Workshop Book” to your woodworking library. We definitely think they were worth the effort and expense to republish and offer information that is useful to this generation and future ones.
Two 40-year-old settin’ chairs spruced up with white paint.
I first reached out to an Appalachian chairmaker in about November 2019. It was before this project came about, before the search started in earnest to find chairmakers in the region. Our initial phone conversation discussed the details about an upcoming two-day visit. I struggled to keep up; the chairmaker’s fast talk and dialect were tough to follow over the phone, especially because he did not get strong service in the mountains and our call dropped a few times. My hope for the visit was to observe, listen, learn and, if at all possible, lend a hand. He outlined a schedule and made a few suggestions for our time.
I asked about local lodging, a place to stay after we worked together. He lives in Eastern Kentucky, which is rural, mountainous and remote. He offered me his guest bedroom, a trusting and generous gesture. The next part of the conversation was memorable, despite the poor connection. I reluctantly accepted his offer to stay, saying I’d be happy to find a local hotel so as not to impose.
He replied, “If things go poorly, I’ll just feed you to the pigs….” *
No follow-up. No laughter. I hoped it was due to the poor connection. My wife made sure I left the chairmaker’s address before leaving for the visit, something to assist the authorities, just in case things did not go well.
*I scanned for barns or signs of livestock upon arriving at his property. None. All clear.
Kentuckian Terry Ratliff, resting after opening a walnut log.
Chris Schwarz asked me to share a little about my upcoming book, “Backwoods Chairs.” The original details of how the idea came together are a little fuzzy, though it had to do with our mutual appreciation for the Appalachian chairmaking traditions. The chairs were the spark that ignited this project.
In “Backwoods Chairs,” I search for post-and-rung chairmakers still working within central Appalachian traditions due to their historic ties to the region (the chairs also go by the name ladderback, hickory-bottom, common and slat-back). But that search proved challenging. Though there’s a rich tradition, the current field of chairmakers is small and dwindling. The makers have little Internet presence, and there is no central information source, such as a person who knows the makers and their locations. I’ve chased dozens of leads and recall laughter on the other end of the phone line as I ask about traditional chairmakers. “Good luck,” they giggle.
Are there makers still out there? Even the chairmakers ask me that question upon hearing about this book project.
There is an abundance of green woodworking in “Backwoods Chairs,” though it’s not all that. Some makers turn their parts from planks, others split and shave. You will find plenty of handwork and hickory bark, a little history and humor within the pages. There are stories about the makers, pictures of their shops and tools, and emphasis on their techniques and their chairs, along with discussion of their successes and hardships. And plenty of chairmaking romance with a dash of capitalism’s ruthlessness. The book’s final section is a step-by-step build of a couple chairs, created for someone with a home shop and lack of backyard access to a deciduous forest full of oaks and maples.
Appalashop, Chester Cornett’s final chair, 1978
There is another thing that draws me to this project beyond my love of the chairs. It is an attitude that is incredibly tough to capture: that these chairs are somehow (and mistakenly) the bottom rung of creative woodworking. That they are almost worth looking beyond, to find something more impressive. The Ronald L. Hurst article “Southern Furniture Studies: Where We’ve Been, Where We’re Going,” for the MESDA Journal, catches some of that vibe (emphasis mine):
Southern furniture is one of the most dynamic subjects in American decorative arts research today. Institutions and private scholars alike are actively investigating a wide array of the region’s cabinetmaking traditions, and their compelling discoveries are regularly revealed in new publications and exhibitions. Yet interest in the topic is comparatively recent. Antiquarians began collecting furniture from the North as early as the 1820s, but there was almost no awareness of its southern counterparts before the 1930s. Even then, study of the material would remain sporadic for another thirty years. Although a small core of early-twentieth-century southern dealers and collectors was aware of the South’s cabinetmaking heritage, the rest of the American decorative arts community was convinced that southern furniture makers fashioned nothing more complex than ladder-back chairs and utility tables.
The following paragraph, from the same article, continues on this theme of regional furniture ignorance:
Ironically, one of the principal catalysts for a widespread change in attitudes about southern furniture came at the 1949 Colonial Williamsburg Antiques Forum. Joseph Downs, curator of the MMA’s American Wing, addressed that first Forum audience in a lecture titled “Regional Characteristics of American Furniture.” During the question-and-answer session that followed, a participant asked Downs why his presentation on American regional style had included only goods made in the North. Downs reportedly replied that “little of artistic merit was made south of Baltimore.” Either Juliette Brewer or Eleanor Offutt, both knowledgeable Kentucky collectors and preservationists, purportedly offered a follow-up question. “Mr. Downs,” one of them asked, “do you speak out of ignorance or out of prejudice?” Downs graciously pled ignorance, but his then widely accepted view on the subject, stated in that place to that audience, generated outrage and launched a movement that remains alive today.
The MESDA article is in reference to collecting and recognizing the value in Southern furniture. It’s my understanding that high-style Southern furniture is now receiving its due. So some things are changing.
Sherman Wooten Rocker
There are significant differences between high-style work and the backwoods chairs. In one, creativity is born out of abundance. The conditions foster beautiful work, yet I am fascinated by creativity out of necessity. Making not in partnership with affluence, but within communities of modest means. Within central Appalachia, the tradition of making out of necessity points directly toward slat-back chairs and their makers. Or at least it did. I’m interested in hearing from the makers about today’s conditions and if they are optimistic about traditional chairmaking continuing forward with future generations.
West Virginian Tom Lynch, gang-cutting slats at the band saw.
This project is possible only because the makers generously opened their workshops and shared their stories. They graciously adjusted along with me throughout the uncertainty of the last year. I planned the first visits for this project for spring of 2020 (you remember last spring). Travel was quickly postponed until conditions improved. A couple visits happened last fall, on good weather days when we could distance and be outdoors, with makers in Eastern Kentucky, North Carolina and West Virginia. Upcoming travel includes trips into Tennessee, North Carolina (again) and Virginia. At that point I should have plenty of material for the book.
I have high hopes for “Backwoods Chairs.” I want to do right by the chairmakers, write an engaging and informative book for the woodworking community, and create something worthy of Lost Art Press. Since starting I have added one more aspiration to my list: I intend to stay clear of any hungry pigs.
We will open the doors of Lost Art Press’s storefront to the public for the first time since 2019 on Aug. 7, 2021 (which also happens to be Megan Fitzpatrick’s birthday).
We will give away free Lost Art Press yardsticks to the first 200 visitors. We also will sell blemished books and tools for 50 percent off retail (cash sales only on blems). And, of course, we will have our complete line of books and tools for sale as well (cash, check or credit).
We ask that all visitors be vaccinated for the COVID-19 virus, and follow CDC guidelines on masking. No exceptions. This is no different than asking you to wear pants. (Don’t bother flaming us in the comments because we will delete them.)
In the next week or so, Megan will have an announcement about 2021 classes at the storefront.
We have been insanely busy since 2019. Lost Art Press has grown to the point where I cannot travel or teach without neglecting the company. That’s a good thing.
We have a contracting crew on site right now that is sprucing up the old bathroom area. The last business in the building before I bought it was a bar. As a result, the toilets were a little sketchy.
We are converting the men’s room (farewell urinal) to a kitchenette. This will give visitors a nice place to get coffee, grab a drink or store their lunches. The women’s room is being upgraded with nice tile, cabinets, fixtures and radiant heat. We’re also doing some work in the library.
All this should be done by August, and we hope you can join us.
— Christopher Schwarz
P.S. What does Megan want for her birthday? She says she has enough whiskey and Shakespeare doo-dads. What she really needs is a live-in contractor who can help her finish her home remodel.
