Work in progress. Partially finished elevation of the north wall, showing the planned corner unit and set of narrow drawers to the left of the stove.
After a long hiatus from shop time thanks to Indiana’s stay-at-home directive, I’ve been back in full force over the past two weeks. Sure, I could have kept working on the kitchen — my shop is next to our house. But why turn my work area into a life-size game of Tetris with cabinets as playing pieces a moment before that crowding was really necessary? Better to leave the roughsawn oak and sheets of plywood flat until we could firm up the schedule for delivery and installation.
Every kitchen I’ve worked on has entailed a few changes along the way. I do my best to help clients make the most important decisions early on. I also encourage them not just to order their plumbing fixtures and appliances, but to have them on hand before I start to cut materials, because reworking cabinets can get expensive quickly.
On this job we’ve done a lot of things differently because of the ongoing pandemic. With no clear idea how long the stay-at-home directive was going to last, my clients, Jenny and Ben, were in less of a hurry to order appliances, etc. and have them delivered — they’ve been working full-time from home in the company of their three children, whose schools were closed for in-person classes. Ordinarily we would have met to discuss a few questions that have cropped up; instead, we’ve hammered things out by email and phone. I’ve dropped off samples of milk paint at their back door. Everything has been slightly off — at times, surreal.
Soapstone slabs at Quality Surfaces near Spencer, Indiana
Our only recent meeting in person took place at a local stone yard, where Jenny and Ben fell in love with a slab of medium-gray soapstone. Compared to other stone, such as granite, this one is relatively soft, so I wanted them to be aware of how it would likely age. I sent snapshots from our kitchen, which has pale gray soapstone counters, and emphasized that even though we treat our counters with care, there’s significant wear along the front edge at the sink. This stone would require extra coddling.
They weighed my warnings. Then, intoxicated by the beauty of the stone, they concluded they had to have it.
To compensate, they decided to use a different kind of sink. The plans included an undermount sink, but after seeing pictures of our counter, Ben and Jenny decided to buy an enameled cast iron apron front, to do away with the especially vulnerable strip of stone across the front. Good thing I hadn’t started building the cabinets — not only did this change the doors from full height to more like 20″; it also meant the sink base would have to be 2″ longer.
Comparing milk paint samples (which have a topcoat of the same water-white conversion varnish we’ll be using on the cabinets) to colors in the stone
The second major change has been to the kitchen’s inside corner. In our earliest discussions I’d gone through my usual reasons for recommending a simple stack of drawers instead of attempting to use the blind space that would otherwise be wasted, but Ben and Jenny decided to go with a corner optimizer.
The unit holds four baskets — two on the left, and two on the right, with one above the other on each side. Here Tony is modeling the unit closed, with only the lower left basket in place.
Full disclosure: I had never installed one of these units, which I first learned of thanks to Craig Regan. It seemed like a better choice than the half-moon blind corner pull-out I once experimented with in my own kitchen (more about this in my forthcoming book); it’s sturdy, better looking and smooth in operation. But once I had it in the cabinet I could see trouble down the line: Unless you’re meticulous about pulling the unit straight out and extending it fully before you pull the second half forward, the face frame of the corner cabinet and the face of the cabinet next to it would get scratched and banged up in short order. For a family of five who really use their kitchen, it seemed like a bad idea.
The first step: pull the primary pair of baskets forward. You have to pull them all the way out before attempting to move them over so that you can pull the secondary baskets out.
Fully open. The primary side [only one basket is installed on each side here] pulls over to the side of the cabinet opening, freeing it up so you can pull the secondary baskets forward.I thought through every likely scenario with the corner optimizer and decided to recommend we nix it in favor of some intelligently-designed, fully-functional drawers; depending on what we discover during demolition, the blind area in the corner will probably become a storage cabinet in the wall flanking the stairs to the basement.
A set of four capacious drawers on full-extension slides will take the place of the original corner optimizer and the 12″-wide drawers that would have flanked it.
To those who complain about old-timers being unwilling to change/jump on the bandwagon of The Newest And Greatest Thing, I offer this story as one reason why some of us whose livelihood depends on this kind of work prefer to recommend the products we know well. We’re not being lazy, fearful or unimaginative. We might have learned something over the decades from our mistakes. In the future, if clients ask me about the advisability of using a corner optimizer such as this one (and I am aware that this is not the only style available), I will factor what I know about how they use their kitchen into my response, as I do with every other detail of kitchen design.
If anyone would like to buy this 15″ blind corner unit at a discount (it makes a great climbing frame/nap place/carnival ride for a cat), let me know in the comments.
Editor’s note: In today’s chair chat we discuss a chair that is so beautiful it makes Chris write poetry. We are unsure about its heritage, but it could be from Wales. Or further east. As Chris was smoking his ham, we found that we love this chair to bits, despite its possibly fake tits. Oh, did I mention to beware the salty language? Sorry!
Helen says this moody portrait, taken during a promotional shoot for a business bank, represents “the only time I’ve ever earned money for standing around doing very little.”
Chris Schwarz suggested I invite Helen Welch to be interviewed for the Lost Art Press blog. “She is a “[bleep]ing badass,” he wrote. “A tool nerd. Funny and sharp as hell.” So I wrote her by email. She sent back the following reply.
“If nothing else (other than saving lives), this lockdown has given us all a chance to do stuff we wouldn’t normally do. Things I’ve discovered during this time:
“I hate sourdough.
“I do not like to work from home. A one-bedroom apartment is no place to make the kind of mess I enjoy in the workshop.
“Practicing my golf swing indoors has aged the fixtures and fittings.
“The homemade wines I made two years ago are now drinking well. A rare case of serendipity.
“Danish is a very odd language but I’m enjoying the challenge.
“Videoing myself is a special kind of torture, only topped by having to edit the damn thing. Gruesome. Likewise Zoom, Skype etc.”
Then she said sure, she’d be happy to do the interview.
I knew I was going to enjoy our phone call.
Helen with Mark Armstrong (center) and Sam Brown. “Sam teaches all the classes I don’t want to do, basically evenings and weekends,” Helen says. “Mark is a carpenter and friend of the school. He comes in to hang out because the school is his happy place. He’s also partially responsible for my tool collecting habit.”
Most woodworkers familiar with Helen know her through the London School of Furniture Making, which she founded and has operated since 2013. “It’s nowhere near as august as the London College of Furniture,” she laughs, acknowledging the similarity between the two names. Woodworking schools pride themselves on a range of qualities, from their size and diversity of course offerings to their cultivation of individual students’ skill in artistic design, or their faithfulness to particular historical traditions. The London School of Furniture Making is tiny, with just four benches, which allows Helen and her fellow instructor, Sam Brown, to give each student an extraordinary level of attention. Course offerings are varied in terms of topic and duration, aimed primarily at amateur makers. Short courses build specific skills; project courses offer opportunities to put them into practice. Beyond this, students can pay a daily fee to come in and simply use the benches and tools, as well as pick her brains. If the London School of Furniture Making were to claim a special niche, it might be that these characteristics make learning there unusually customized and accessible.
Students from a three-day Core Skills – Joinery class last December. “As you can see,” notes Helen, “not everyone finishes their graduation project.”
Helen’s parents, Michael and Leonora (with friendly pigeons)
Helen started the school after decades of work in the trades. She was born and raised in North London, where her father sold film (the kind for cameras in the pre-digital era) at Boots, a nationwide pharmacy chain. Her mother had a variety of jobs that included work in a perfume factory but spent most of her career in retail sales at John Lewis, one of Britain’s best loved department stories. Helen’s older brother, Maurice, is a passionate photographer who’s all about electronics and gadgets.
Maurice and Helen
At the age of 11 Helen made a conscious decision to go to a girls’ school. “I didn’t want to have to fight for my teachers’ attention,” she explains. By the time she entered sixth form (senior high school in the United States), the school had become co-ed. In 1984, as she was preparing to take her A-Levels in biology, chemistry and business studies, she says, “all my fears about being overlooked came to fruition. I was simply exhausted from the struggle, so I left.”
Later that year she returned to the school to attend a careers fair, most of the offerings at which were “not interesting, just banks and boring things, not what I envisaged doing…” But as she wandered around the booths, a couple of people at a tiny stall in a corner called out “Come chat to us! If you’re not doing anything, why don’t you come and work in our woodwork-cum-training college?” Why not? she thought, and jumped right in.
The business was a collaboration of four people – two men and two women – who shared a shop in the north London area called Kentish Town. “Splinter Group was a training center which carried out woodworking jobs in the local community,” she told me. “I was paid £25 per week as part of the government’s Youth Training Scheme.” The shop was a large space with an eight-bench hand tool room and a separate machine shop, all on the first floor (which we in the States refer to as the second floor) of a Victorian-era light industrial building. The work entailed a mixture of teaching/learning and making. “If it was wood, they did it. They would bring their trainees on site as well as building in the shop.” While working there Helen made a set of stairs; a complicated play frame for a children’s play center; a table and shelves, and a toolbox for the tool set they gave her. “I remember thinking it was quite a good mix of skills and different woodworking projects. It gave me an idea of what was possible — there are all sorts of things I can make with these skills.”
After about six months at this cooperative shop, Helen spent a year doing a variety of work, “including making some fake French antiques for a guy I met in a pub.” She worked in building maintenance for a local women’s center and ended up applying for an apprenticeship in carpentry and joinery with Camden Council, where she spent three years – one year in building maintenance and repairs; one year of renovation and restoration on jobsites; and one year in a joiner’s shop making windows and doors. She earned her City & Guilds Certificate in carpentry and joinery in the late 1980s, specializing in (of all things) building forms for cast concrete structures, a skill she hasn’t used since. As soon as she had the certificate, she left the council job. “’This is a three-year prison sentence which is now up,’” she remembers thinking – “three years of misogyny and racism. I have very few happy memories [of that time]. It was tiresome, but I worked hard to not let it scar me.”
Helen took a job as a building inspector for the Building Control Department in Camden and then Islington, where she worked for five years. As someone who had worked in the trades, she says, “I realized there was a split between the people who came in from university and those from the trades. I quickly made friends with the ex-carpenters and the ex-plumbers. We were more collaborative when working with the chippies (Brit-speak for carpenters) on site, whereas some of our colleagues just wanted to read the letter of the law. [The work of building inspectors] is more of a problem-solving exercise,” she says, alluding to the kind of considered and constructive approach that anyone in construction or remodeling appreciates. She sums up that experience as “five years of interesting developments in my understanding of construction and the legal side [of that business].” But in the end, she felt “I was too young to be trapped telling people what to do. I missed being back in the workshop making things.”
So she took herself off to the London Metropolitan University (formerly the London Guildhall University/London College of Furniture, and before that, Shoreditch Technical Institute) to study guitar making. “I had a fantastic three years there,” she says of that time, which allowed her to develop her skills at a far higher level. She graduated from the program thinking “Wow, this is amazing – and there’s absolutely no career in it!”
Helen with the last guitar she made, about 15 years ago. “I keep thinking I’ll get around to making another…,” she says.
Being a determined individual in need of income, Helen started making built-ins and doing carpentry. She had no shop; she worked in people’s homes. “[It was] me, my van and tool kit. Me constructing things on site. It worked for a good number of years.” Her business came exclusively by word of mouth. Her customers were mostly married couples with a couple of kids, “quite well-paid people in their mid-30s who’d just bought their first proper house and wanted to have some built-in cupboards.”
She supported herself by means of this work, without a shop, for about 10 years, starting around 1994. She had a typical complement of trim carpentry tools: a portable Festool table saw (made up by fitting her track saw into a table), a jigsaw, planer, power tools, and used a couple of “trestles” (sawhorses) topped with a sheet of plywood for a bench. “Not a lot of hand tools,” she says, then throws in: “When I think about it now I wonder how did I manage to last 10 years doing that? Eight-by-four sheets of MDF. Hateful!”
A set of living room built-ins typical of the work Helen did for ten years without a shop.
As a side gig ever since completing her training in lutherie she taught part time at London Metropolitan University, City and Islington College, Women’s Education in Building and The School of Stuff, to name a few – some evening classes, sometimes one day a week. She enjoyed teaching but she still had no intention of doing so in her own set-up.
Around 2004 Helen finally got a workshop in a space shared with a fellow who went by the name Bob Smoke (not his real name); he made props and designed special effects for film and television. Although she describes it as “an enormous hangar of a place which was freezing cold in winter and hot in summer, never comfortable,” the new work situation gave her the opportunity to retrieve her better equipment from the storage unit where she’d been keeping it, and to make more interesting things than painted built-ins. Jobs still came entirely through word of mouth.
Oak sideboard, circa 2014, made for Helen’s friends David and Paul. She thinks this was the last commission she took on before closing down Welch Assembly, her cabinetmaking business.
By 2010 she’d decided it was time to commit to what she calls “a proper workshop.” She looked around. For £600 a month she could get a place that wasn’t much bigger than the living room in her apartment. But for £750 she could get something much better: a shared workspace in a complex of industrial warehouses built around the 1970s in Tottenham, North London, that’s home to 15 cabinetmaking businesses. She went to see the couple of guys who had the space to let, Alistair Williams and Joe Ridout – they run a furniture and cabinetmaking company – and she ended up renting the space. Since then, she says, “I really haven’t looked back.” When they moved into a bigger unit she asked if she could take on a couple of students as a new venture – “something sustainable that makes me feel like I’m having a good time…something that will not give me sleepless nights and leave me feeling resentful to[ward] customers.” She found that there were lots of people eager to learn, people who valued her flexible set-up. Her fledgling venture grew, and she decided it was going to be a school. Happily, Joe and Alistair were and still are very supportive.
Most students find her through the school’s website. Classes have been cancelled since mid-March. She’s spent her time at the shop alone streamlining things and improving ergonomics – much-needed improvements to what she calls the previous “controlled chaos,” while also “playing with my tool kit, as opposed to the school’s. I’m a tinkerer.” The last thing she made was a solid silver plane, just for fun. “I wanted to try my hand at jewelry, working with precious metal clay.” After firing you end up with 99 percent pure silver.
Most other businesses in the building have been carrying on as usual. For those doing custom furniture and cabinetmaking, there’s plenty of space to keep the recommended distance from others; for teaching detailed hand skills, not so much. She hopes to resume classes in June.
Ash and fumed oak display cabinet for a school in Essex, circa 2011
Ray Deftereos, a self-described “hand tool evangelist from South Africa,” began learning about and working with hand tools only two years ago. This, in part, makes him an ideal person to host “Hand Tool Book Review,” a “podcast for woodworms.”
When starting out, Ray says he found it difficult to find good books about working with hand tools. So he read about 100 of them, and is reviewing them regularly. His reviews (so far he’s completed 18) are a joy to listen to –– carefully and professionally crafted, they’re thoughtful and concise, and as an avid learner himself, Ray understands what elements a book must have to further his skill. His pleasing voice is an added bonus.
Regarding the book’s physical qualities, Ray says, “I wish a podcast could let you feel the texture of a book. But I guess we’ll have to settle for words.” And later: “The end product is a rich book that has to be physically seen to be truly appreciated. There’s a wonderful texture, layout and composition to the book that makes it suitable as a prized coffee table book. To get your non-hand-tool friends on the right path of course, just leave them waiting for a few minutes with the book front and center, and let the book do the talking.”
But Ray is quick to note that “Hands Employed Aright” is much more than a beautiful coffee table book. Using the phrase “investigative archaeology” more than once, Ray points out the usefulness of the book to both the beginner and experienced craftsperson. While the beginning of the book is a fascinating look at Jonathan Fisher’s life, Ray says the “back section is perfect for mulling over when starting a new project” and that inspiration can be found for a “range of projects” with folk who have a “range of experience.”
Ray also enjoyed Joshua’s careful cataloguing of Jonathan Fisher’s tools. For those still building their tool kits, it can be difficult to decide what is necessary. “I suggest that in time this book will become one of the classics alongside Benjamin Seaton’s tool chest in terms of being an incredible insight into what a typical tool kit might have contained,” Ray says.
Beyond tool and project inspiration, Ray says Jonathan Fisher’s daily journal writing “leaves an incredible record that is probably the most complete of any pre-industrial woodworking that will ever be uncovered. That said, it’s probably going to be a source of new revelations for a long time to come as the historical record is translated and compiled. And yet … perhaps the honesty of the record is what makes this book a moving read.”
Jonathan Fisher is deeply humble and human, something Joshua clearly portrays through the book. These attributes are also present in Jonathan Fisher’s woodworking. “Paging through the pieces I felt a part of sweet connection with the past,” Ray says.
Joshua “interrogates the details so thoroughly,” Ray adds. “I think that often hand tool use is romanticized as being slow or old-fashioned. The author does a lot to dispel these perceptions by showing how building furniture in this manner can be very efficient, if done with a pre-industrial mindset.”
Ray adds that this is one of the first books he’s read that celebrated the idea that tear-out on the inside of a piece is acceptable. “Like the concept of reference faces, this is a concept that becomes mundane the more you practice it,” Ray says. “But it seemed radical, the first time I encountered it. … In your hand-tool journey, I suggest that this book will help you learn from those who came before us, people who had no access to band saws or electric planers or shop assistants as they’re romantically called today. And from their experience, there is a wealth of knowledge to be gained.”
In the beginning of this particular episode, Ray says future podcasts will discuss books on workbenches, tools, wood and finishing.
You can listen to this podcast and Ray’s others, here. You can purchase “Hands Employed Aright,” and download a free preview, here.
Thank you, Ray, for taking the time to read and review Joshua’s book –– and for sharing your hand-tool journey with so many.
When you think of American Arts & Crafts furniture, the names Stickley and Limbert are probably the first to spring to mind, but in my neck of the woods, I think Onken. Well, not really – but I do think immediately of the Cincinnati company he bought in 1904, The Shop of the Crafters.
Unlike the many shops of the turn of the 20th century that offered close copies of Stickley designs, The Shop of the Crafters incorporated German influences (not a surprise in Cincinnati, which had at least six German-language newspapers in the 19th century) and Hungarian influences, thanks to the lead designer, Pál Horti. Many of the designs incorporate inlay in contrasting woods and metal, which lends a touch of refinement. Though some of it is, to my eye, a bit on the overwrought side, the marketing language of the 1906 catalog tells me I must be a philistine:
“The Crafter movement seeks to obliterate over-decoration, purposeless, meaningless designs and to install instead, a purity of style, which will express at once, beauty, durability and usefulness.
“Working in harmony with this idea Professor Paul Horti has introduced a touch of inlay work of colored woods or metal, that enlivens the strong simple lines of Mission furniture.
“Professor Horti’s dining room at the St. Louis Fair and his designs for the decoration of the Hungarian sections in the Palace of Fine Arts Building, Manufacturers’ Building and Mines and Metallurgy Building were so wholly delightful in their originality as to have exerted a far reaching influence on the general, crafts’ movement. His work with the Shop of the Crafters of Cincinnati has contributed to the distinction it enjoys for productions that are pure in style and of artistic beauty. Your attention is directed to the special pieces referred to, which you will find on the following pages.
“In fine cabinet work and finish the Shop of the Crafters particularly excels. The wood is selected church oak; the workmanship shows the highest skill and the true craftsman’s thought for durability and service. The different finishes are mellow and lovely, bringing out, not concealing the natural beauty of the wood.”
I do have a couple of Shop of the Crafters pieces on my “to build” list (including the Morris chair that Christopher Schwarz built in the June 2000 issues of Popular Woodworking – it’s the No. 413 shown at top).
There are several interesting online sources for more information, including:
There’s also a 2017 book, “Oscar Onken and The Shop of the Crafters at Cincinnati,” by M.J. McCracken and W. Michael McCracken, that shares the history of Onken and his designers, as well as catalogs, photos of the pieces and the entire first issue of The Lantern, a short-lived promotional magazine on the company and its philosophy (Chris wrote about it here).
And when it’s safe to travel again, plan a visit to Cincinnati, and save time for a few hours (at least) at the Cincinnati Art Museum, where there’s a good collection of Shop of the Crafters and other Cincinnati-made furniture.
When you think of American Arts & Crafts furniture, the names Stickley and Limbert are probably the first to spring to mind, but in my neck of the woods, I think Onken. Well, not really – but I do think immediately of the Cincinnati company he bought in 1904, The Shop of the Crafters.
