During the last 20 years, I’ve experimented with a lot of alternative (or odd) materials to build workbenches. Most worked fine. I think the raw materials are less important than their dimensions and the bench’s design.
Megan Fitzpatrick and I encountered laminated veneer lumber (in the video I erroneously call it LVL) used as a worksurface at a noodle restaurant near the Popular Woodworking offices. Of course, I’d seen LVL before in commercial construction. But the person who made these tables had cut slices of the stuff, rotated them 90° and glued them together. Basically, they had created a surface composed entirely of the edges of plywood.
So I helped Megan build a workbench using the stuff. It was featured on the cover of the November 2009 issue.
The benchtop has held up great during the last 11 years. It’s still as flat as the day we finished it. And it takes a beating, despite the fact that it’s only 2-1/2” thick. I wish we had time to rebuild the base. The video discusses the other modifications we’ve made to it over the years.
Some of the items shown in the video (these are not affiliate links)
The only good thing I can say about the stupidness of venture capital is that it resulted in me obtaining this workbench.
This is a vintage Ulmia. I’m guessing it’s 1980s vintage based on what I know about the provenance of the bench (if you know for sure I’m wrong, please let me know). It was owned by American Woodworker magazine for years and then ended up in my hands via a series of binges and purges by the venture capital firm that owned F+W Media during its implosion.
One day the company vacated its bowels of a large amount of woodworking gear and projects that the American Woodworker staff had built. I was in the right place at the right time.
It’s a great bench. And the statement I make at the beginning of the video is 100 percent true (the statement about lasagne at the end of the video is also true). There are a few dumb things about the bench, but those are covered in the video (and are things I have fixed).
If you are ever offered one of these benches, and it’s in good shape (many are not), then go for it. Here in the Midwest, Ulmias tend to go for $800 to $1,500, depending on their condition. That’s a pretty good deal, all things considered.
— Christopher Schwarz
P.S. I know that the current company that owns Ulmia did not make this workbench. I haven’t seen any examples of Ulmias since the company was sold, so I don’t have any opinion on them. Sorry.
“Students are forever running to libraries to get various books – on peasant art, Scandinavian modern, Shaker, Colonial, Indian – one this and one that. They fill their heads with all these images, and then frantically try to come up with something of their own. As though you put these ingredients in a kettle, add water, stir, and cook for two hours. What do you get? Pottage. Pea soup.
It’s a losing battle. And so exhausting. Stay out of it. It took me a long time to realize this, and accept my unoriginal self. Try to find the sort of people for whom there is another originality – that of the quiet object in unquiet times.”
James Krenov, “A Cabinetmaker’s Notebook” p.45
It’s been nearly two years since we first announced my biography of James Krenov, and more than that since I began my research. I had initially hoped to keep a regular blogging practice up through the book’s writing – it turned out that I had a lot to learn. Nearly every week since that time two years ago, I’ve learned some new facet of Krenov’s life, some new angle to his approach, a new anecdote or, in some cases, entire paths and works of his that I (and the internet, his family or his close friends) had never known about. The number of revelations I had, even about Krenov’s basic biographical details or work, made me wary of putting anything down in writing that I wasn’t ready to share – you don’t know what you don’t know.
Now, with my manuscript about 80 percent done, and nearly every stone upturned, I’ve emerged with an entirely different and more total image of Krenov, as an individual, a philosopher and a craftsperson. This past week I hit a milestone in my writing – I finished my chapter writing about Jim’s first woodworking book, “A Cabinetmaker’s Notebook,” which was a huge moment of inflection in his career. Luckily for me and my writing, the book garnered him enough attention and publicity that I’ve officially entered a phase of his life where documentation and detail is no longer hard-won – writing the last half-dozen chapters of his life is more about noise reduction and separating the wheat from the chaff.
Krenov was already 56 years old when “Notebook” was published (though he started writing it a decade earlier). He shared little of his own biographic details – like so much of Krenov’s advice to students, his anecdotes and stories are presented almost as fables, or points along a story arc or in service of a conclusion, not a self-examination or real background. He writes a detailed autobiographic summary at the back of “Notebook,” but he omits so much (I now know!). He never discussed (in any length) his context, that of the students, colleagues, competitors and critics he came up around in Stockholm for 15 years. Perhaps a nod to Carl Malmsten, a few vague acknowledgements in the front matter of the book. But he had been a translator, boatbuilder, travel writer, factory worker, so much more in his youth, and as a craftsperson he interacted with a wide swath of trends and tastemakers, old and new – and he discussed very little of this publicly, though it was deeply formative in his own trajectory.
There is a context to Krenov’s writing – one that goes much deeper than the already nuanced and sensitive philosophy he expressed in his books. I just read through “Notebook” again over the past week, and with all that I know now, after interviewing people around the globe and sifting through thousands of pages of photos, letters, newspaper archives and public documents, the book’s subtleties and Krenov’s implicit understandings and influences are much richer. My own reflections, conclusions and musings I take away from reading the book are much deeper and more rewarding as well.
And a biography is not the place to write a detailed analysis of the book – that could easily be its own tome, as nearly each paragraph’s individual implications are worth a dissection (to my eye). And he went on to write four more books on the subject. I hope that many who might be interested in this biography might have read his books already – but should I count on that? And, while I think my biography will offer up the fruits of my discoveries for my readers, would they have come to similar conclusions and interpretations?
So, with so many of us in our homes, I thought I’d propose an idea, one I’ve discussed with a few fellow graduates of Jim’s school in recent weeks – a kind of book club, where we can discuss his books and work and I can share this rich new understanding and insight I have into Krenov’s writings and life.
So – a week from today, I’ll be writing my own impressions and analysis of the first section of Krenov’s first book, “A Cabinetmaker’s Notebook,” and pulling quotes or passages that I find relevant, interesting or though-provoking. Specifically, I’ll be looking at the front matter of the book (the acknowledgements, openings quotes and first essay) up to page 23.
I’d also like to include you all in this, in discussion and in my write-up next week – so, over the course of this next week, give the book a read up to page 23, make some notes or come up with a question or two you might have about the work, photography or philosophy, and post them in the comments of this post, down below. I’ll be tending to the comments over the next week, to react to or answer simpler questions, but the more complex impressions, perspectives or questions will make up a section of my own post next week. I hope you all will also interact with each other in the comments, too. If enough people are interested, I’ll look into hosting an online chatroom or live discussion, where we might have an easier time going back and forth in a more focused or direct manner.
If you don’t have a copy of the book, you can certainly order one to join in the discussion (it’s worth having a copy around, and the book is still available to order online), but the Internet Archive has also set up a digital library online during this pandemic to get people access to reading material while their libraries are closed. The first edition of Krenov’s book is hosted there, and you can “borrow” the book just as you would from a library (though you will have to make an account to do so): here’s the link. That’s the first edition version of the book, from Van Nostrad Reinhold, which is what I’ll be reading – the language and photos didn’t change in subsequent publications, but there were introductions and forewords in future editions that we won’t be discussing here.
It’s less than an hour’s read, and I’ll continue to work through the rest of the book in the upcoming weeks, provided there is an interest. There’s a good reason this book was so influential at the time – and I think many of the quotes, like the one I opened this post with, remain relevant and worth discussing in any creative practice or craft. Every time I read back through it, I find more to think about – and I suspect you will, too. I hope my insights into the book will also demonstrate that the work of this biography is much more than a service to Jim’s legacy – I think an understanding of Krenov’s life and its contextual environments informs a deeper understanding of craft and creative practice through the 20th century. It also provides a lot of material from which you might glean a better understanding of your own position and practice as a craftsperson or consumer.
— Brendan Gaffney
“Old Jim” (as he called himself in later years) reading a passage from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s “Wind, Sand and Stars” to his students at The College of the Redwoods Fine Woodworking Program (now The Krenov School). Photo by David Welter.
Editor’s note: This 1949 column from “Honest Labour: The Charles H. Hayward Years” sums up two opinions about woodworking that don’t get much discussion. The first is one that I talk about all the time with woodworkers over a beer: We have a supply-side problem. One of the reasons that people don’t buy nice, handmade furniture is because there isn’t a lot of it around. Or, as Hayward puts it:
“Any revival must ultimately depend upon the work of the individual, and the more men there are turning out furniture of good quality and design, the more people are going to be influenced in the right direction. It must be remembered that although, as a nation, we have lost immeasurably, as individuals we have gained.”
A close examination of our beer culture is analogous. People had to taste the difference between a $4 beer and a $1 beer to understand why someone sane would charge $4 for a beer (this is in the 1990s). Dedicated brewers made beer even if the money wasn’t there. And lots went out of business in the 1990s. But eventually….
The second point Hayward makes in this column is that we are all too soon to rush to complete a piece of work. When doing our best work, the last 5 percent takes almost as much effort as the first 95 percent. But that is what differentiates good work from excellent work. I cannot always push myself to the limit. I have to eat. But when I can afford to do it, I always sleep with a smile on my face.
— Christopher Schwarz
The Will and the Deed
It looks as though to-day we are at the beginning of a new era. Values are shifting and changing, in many ways coming nearer to an ancient order of things than once we would have thought possible. Work in farm and field has become once more of prime importance, so has the skill of the technician, the man with the trained hands. We are being compelled to live more realistically, to see money as of less importance than things, a token of barter of little worth unless there are the goods available for barter. We may feel indeed that the time is ripe for the revival of craftsmanship, for the craftsman can only be truly valued when things are truly valued, and when productive, creative work is put first in the scheme of things.
***
We may feel that much of our old tradition of craftsmanship has been lost, that fine tradition which has been described as “the fearless, faithful, inherited energies that worked on and down from death to death, generation after generation.” As a nation we flung it recklessly away, too pleased with our new prosperity to realise that we had flung away the baby with the bathwater and that it had been a very lusty child. Nowadays we can realise something of what we have lost, shocked into realisation by the prevalence of low standards of workmanship against which a robust, inherited tradition is the best kind of safeguard.
***
Nevertheless, signs of revival are all about us. The need for good quality and design is entering more consciously into industry, and every effort is being made to interest the public in it. The public, that is to say, the purchaser, is in the last resort the judge, and as the general level of taste rises so will the quality of the goods that are offered to meet it. The woodworker, whether he be a home craftsman or professional cabinetmaker, can be an influence all for the good. Any revival must ultimately depend upon the work of the individual, and the more men there are turning out furniture of good quality and design, the more people are going to be influenced in the right direction. It must be remembered that although, as a nation, we have lost immeasurably, as individuals we have gained. The potential craftsman of to-day may indeed be out of touch with his traditional inheritance, but he has hopes and opportunities which his forbears never knew. Lose touch with it altogether he cannot because the instinct for creation is in every man’s blood. And if with fidelity and honesty of purpose he makes use of the wider opportunities which now every citizen takes for granted, then he will be among those who are helping to forge a new tradition in every way worthy of the old.
***
Ruskin, who sprinkled many a homely truth among his art teachings, said that, “The weakest among us has a gift, however seemingly trivial, which is peculiar to him, and which worthily used will be a gift also to his race for ever.” In how many of us, I wonder, does the gift lie dormant? It is like a seed which must be fed and watered before it can yield its fruit, and wether it will be a weakly or a sturdy plant depends mainly on just how much attention we are prepared to give it. Honest, persevering work is the first requirement, and with it goes the courage to battle with any defect of our own temperament, whether of impatience or carelessness or laziness, that will hinder and thwart our progress. In this way a man may become a competent handicraftsman, turning out work which will not shame him.
***
But say he wants more than this. He has seen examples of fine craftsmanship and is ambitious to become a really fine craftsman. It means still deeper cultivation, not only by still further increasing the skill of his hands but by feeding his intelligence as well. He has to train his eye to recognise beauty of form and to teach his heart to love it, so infecting his judgment that it becomes intuitively fine, expressing itself in the smallest part of whatever thing he is making. To the craftsman of old much of this came by inherited instinct, fed by the example of the older men and the examples of fine work all about him. We have consciously to acquire it and go out to seek examples for ourselves. Time and opportunity are on our side. What we most need is the will.
***
And that I fancy is the crux of the whole matter. In our wisest moments we see the good we strive to follow, but we are not always wise. Other things come in to distract and deter us, it is so easy to drift along, always intending to do this thing but somehow never quite succeeding. We hold part of ourselves back, that last ounce it hurts us to give, because to give it we have really to live actively in every fibre of our being and give up some of the easier, indolent pleasures. Is it worth the sacrifice? We know, in our best moments, how greatly it is worth it. When we have achieved a piece of work which we know is really good, when our whole being thrills with the satisfaction of it, we are touching a kind of happiness which nothing else yields, a happiness which alone satisfies the deepest craving of our nature. We need the strength and courage so to work that the things we fashion with our hands express the best that is in us. Our purpose is there, our knowledge, these things we can compass. But to express them at their highest takes the staunch will, the integrity of purpose that does not count the cost. Enough that in so doing we find our own highest fulfillment.
This was the first slab-top workbench I built, and I made it entirely by hand (save for one long rip when I defaulted to the band saw because I thought I might pass out).
The bench’s size was dictated by the wood that was available, which is why it’s 18-1/2” wide and less than 6’ long. You work with what you got. It’s a good bench for an apartment, but its small stature is its biggest weakness.
The other fun part about the benchtop was that the cherry had rotted a bit, and so I stabilized it with epoxy, which I tinted with black iron filings. This was in 2010, and I had no idea that epoxy and rotted slabs would ever be a thing. And then Roy Underhill, decided to take a whack at it.
If you are interested in reading about its construction, Popular Woodworking has been vacating its vaults of all the plans we built up there through the last 20 years. They’ve made it a free plan, which you can get here.
If you are going to make your own version, make the top 22” to 24” wide and a full 6’ or 7’ long. And skip that stupid door below (it wasn’t my call).
Some products shown in the video. These are not affiliate links.
Editor’s note: This 1949 column from “
