In my Amercian Welsh Stick Chair classes, we start with home center dowels that have been selected for dead-straight grain for the chair’s back spindles and sticks. They work great (wood is wood), but there can be a lot of luck and driving around necessary to get enough sticks for a class of six to 12 students.
In fact, last year, I denuded the Kentucky/Ohio/Indiana Tristate area of straight-grain red oak dowels for my March 2019 class.
For my classes in the coming year, I decided to find a way to reduce my driving and gathering.
After trying many options (too many to list here without wanting to slap myself with a cold, dead mackerel), I settled on the Veritas Dowel Maker. I’ve used it before when making the sticks for Roorkee chairs.
The idea is simple: you spin square stock into the device. Two blades slice it down to size.
The only complication is that the device is a bit complicated to set up. After reading the instructions a few times, I went upstairs to see if the university had taken back my diploma. I simply wasn’t able to follow the instructions in a couple places. I needed a good video to understand what I’m missing here.
Sadly, there aren’t any really excellent videos out there on this tool. There are a lot of OK ones. After watching a few of them I was able to make the appropriate synapses and the device became crystal clear to operate.
With my stupidity set aside (for the time being), I made the blanks for my spindles. This was the joyous part. I could select the straightest, clearest stock to make spindles that were super strong.
After that, you spin the blanks into the device – a drill powers the operation. The surface finish on the dowels was pretty good. A single swipe with a scraper was enough to remove the annular rings. Another plus: I could fine-tune the dowels to come out at exactly the dimension I wanted.
After running 100 or so sticks, I decided to sharpen the blades and see if that improved the surface finish. So I stoned them both up to #8,000 grit on my waterstones (they sharpen just like a plane iron). The improvement in surface finish was minimal – I still need to scrape them.
All in all, I believe the Veritas Dowel Maker will pay for itself with my first class. It saves me a tank of gas, and I can make the sticks for a chair using $10 in wood instead of $24 to $36.
If I made only an occasional chair, I’d make the sticks the old-fashioned way with a spokeshave or block plane. But you need 50 perfect dowels with dead-straight grain, the tool is a nice thing to have.
— Christopher Schwarz
P.S. Of course I paid full price for the Veritas Dowel Maker and the accessories. And the wood. And etc.
Christian
Becksvoort was born in Wolfsburg, Germany. His father, who had spent seven
years as a German apprentice, worked as a cabinetmaker. When Chris was 6, his
parents decided to move to Toronto. But shortly before relocating to Canada, the
Toronto church sponsorship fell through and Washington, D.C. became a
last-minute alternative. In time, the family settled in Wheaton, Maryland
– better school, better neighborhood.
As a
child, Chris remembers building small wooden boats, model ships and historic
schooners – “little things like that,” he says. “I always enjoyed making
things and being outdoors.”
Chris’s high
school had a nice shop, and he took four years of shop class. There he learned how
to use power tools, tool safety, joinery methods and finishing techniques. Wood
technology, however, was glossed over. He built a mahogany plant table “that
was put together pretty well,” he says, but it cracked. When he asked his shop
teacher why, his teacher simply said, “You didn’t let the wood move.”
Chris says
at the time, he didn’t have the faintest idea of how wood movement worked or
how to allow for it. (He later took one semester of wood technology in
college.) His furniture now sells to clients all over the country, in many
different climates.
“Sending
it back to me is not an option,” he says, citing, in particular, substantial
delivery costs. “Once I get paid I never see it again.”
And that’s
how he likes it – his furniture is built to last generations, and this
lesson he learned in high school has influenced the design of every piece he
has made since. On his website, under “The Becksvoort Difference,” he writes,
“I take wood movement seriously, over-building and compensating to ensure that
your investment lasts.” He includes two examples: dovetailing all his mouldings
and constructing telescoping web frames between his drawers.
Chris’s dad continued working as a cabinetmaker in the states, building furniture and doing architectural work, built-ins and kitchens. When Chris, who was still learning, turned 12, his dad, a perfectionist, hired him.
“Things didn’t go as well as they should have,” Chris says, counting the number of times he was fired and re-hired in one summer. “He was not the easiest guy to work for. So the last thing I wanted to do was be a woodworker for a living.”
Chris Becksvoort in 1972, when he met his now-wife, Peggy, in a photography class.
Chris
ended up at the University of Maine – far enough away that he couldn’t go
home for a weekend but close enough that he could go home for a week’s vacation,
he says. Plus, he enjoyed cold weather. He played intramural hockey (and, later
in life, did speed skating for several years). He started out studying
forestry, but switched to wildlife. The switch in majors required some summer
coursework to catch up on credits. While taking a photography course he met a
woman who would soon become his wife, Peggy.
Peggy and Chris Becksvoort, shortly after their marriage.
After graduating
in 1972, Chris got a government job at a wildlife research center in Maryland. Part
of his job was feeding 600 Japanese quail. While he enjoyed the fact that
everyone knocked off early on Fridays to go out for a beer, the work wasn’t
what he expected, and wasn’t much fun (let’s just say another employee’s
misplaced decimal point once meant the untimely demise of hundreds of birds).
Woodworking, he said, was beginning to look not too bad after all.
So Chris returned to Maine and worked for a furniture manufacturer for nine years. He learned a lot, both about woodworking and running a business. Next was a gig with a large architectural millwork shop in downtown Portland. There he helped restore Victorian homes by working on stairways, windows and doors, and reproducing historic mouldings. “It was a real learning experience,” he says, as he describes using routers and shapers in heart-stopping ways.
Chris Becksvoort at one of his first teaching gigs in 1979.
In 1986, he opened his own shop. “I’ve been at it ever since, and it’s been a real challenging ride, to say the least,” he says.
‘That Shaker Guy’
“Mary mother of God. That’s
Christian Becksvoort! He’s the modern master of Shaker style. I never dreamed
that I would see him in the flesh.” —
Ron Swanson, played by Nick Offerman, NBC’s “Parks and Recreation,” season 5,
episode 9.
Before
Chris’s name became synonymous with Shaker furniture, he first became smitten
with the form after seeing pieces in a 1974 exhibit at the Smithsonian American
Art Museum’s Renwick gallery. “I went back to visit it five, six, seven times,”
he says. Little did he know that someday he would have the chance to reproduce
two of the gallery’s pieces in his own shop.
Chris says his father built a lot of Danish-style, mid-century modern furniture. So Chris grew up admiring clean surfaces and with an understanding that less is often more. “I don’t want to interrupt a surface with fancy mouldings,” he says. He doesn’t like design that exists without a utilitarian purpose (ahem, gingerbread), anything that screams “hey, look what I can do” or anything that makes dusting difficult. “There’s no dirt in heaven,” he quips.
Chris’s signature piece, a cherry 15-drawer chest. Photo by Dennis Griggs Photo.
In his 1998 book “The Shaker Legacy: Perspectives on an Enduring Furniture Style,” (The Taunton Press) Chris writes, “As a furniture maker, I not only value the Shakers’ considerable craftsmanship but also respect their insistence upon utility as the first tenet of good design. With the Shakers, there is no ego involved, no conscious effort to produce works of art. Austere utility is beautiful in and of itself, and often works of art are inadvertently produced.”
With full-width panels, Chris says web frames must be allowed to telescope to account for side-to-side wood movement, as shown here.
He not
only appreciates the simplicity of Shaker furniture, but the construction
methods used as well. “It’s clean,” he says. “But some of the construction is
fairly complex. It’s well-designed.”
Chris says
his biggest entry into Shaker furniture was being allowed to do maintenance and
restoration work for Sabbathday Lake, the last remaining active Shaker
community, in New Gloucester, Maine.
“If you want any repair work done I’ll do it for the cost of materials,” he said. They agreed, and it’s work he’s still doing today.
One of Chris’s cherry four-drawer chests, photographed in the hallway of the Girl’s Shop at the Sabbathday Lake Shaker community. Photo by Dennis Griggs Photo.
“From making display cases to replacing chair parts, restoring a sewing desk, replacing moulding, or assembling an entire built-in, my work with the Shakers has been rewarding, educational and, hopefully, mutually beneficial,” Chris wrote in “Shaker Inspiration,” his latest book from Lost Art Press. “Seeing the size, angle and spacing of dovetails cut 200 years ago, or taking apart a mortise-and-tenon joint and discovering that the edges were carefully chamfered, was a learning experience unlike any taught in school.”
Chris also rose in name recognition through his work with Fine Woodworking. Chris had heard about a guy who had a cool portable band saw so he drove to him, interviewed him and took pictures. He sent it all to Fine Woodworking and not only did they buy the article, but soon after they offered him a job. Not wanting to move to Connecticut, Chris agreed to a contributing editor position, which he has held since 1989. (You can read much of his magazine work here.)
He has written several books, including “The Shaker Legacy” (Taunton Press, 1998); “With the Grain: A Craftsman’s Guide to Understanding Wood” (Lost Art Press, 2013), which was originally published as “In Harmony With Wood” (Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1983) and “Shaker Inspiration” (Lost Art Press, 2018).
And for years he ran workshops and conducted lectures around the country.
What Chris Becksvoort calls “brainstorm designing” of a music stand.
As such, Chris says he’s been dubbed “that Shaker guy.” I
ask if this has ever made him feel pigeonholed. Sometimes, he admits. But he’s
also taken some creative liberties with design. For example, a traditional
Shaker music stand is fairly straight forward and stiff – his are more
fluid, “Shaker-inspired.”
“There are plusses and minuses,” he says. “But mostly it’s a good label.”
Chris Becksvoort, Nick Offerman and Thomas Lie-Nielsen
His work has resulted in a bit of fame. Fans regularly take the time to find and visit his showroom and shop, tucked away on a dirt road in the backwoods of Maine. Most visitors are kind and considerate, he says. He’s been featured on Martha Stewart’s show (you can watch the 2001 clip here). And actor, woodworker and writer Nick Offerman considers him a personal hero (Chris is featured in Nick’s book “Good Clean Fun” (Dutton, 2016) and Chris appeared in an episode of “Parks and Recreation,” in which Nick plays character Ron Swanson).
“A major treat, and a great honor, was to be featured in
Nick Offerman’s new book, ‘Good Clean Fun,’” Chris wrote on his blog in October
2016. “A whole chapter, no less!”
Crafting a Business
In “Shaker
Inspiration,” Chris spends a lot of ink on the business of woodworking. He
begins with the necessity of preparation and a solid business plan that
includes a summary, organization, description, product line, market analysis
and funding. He then dives into the importance of quality photos, advertising,
catalogs, customer lists, customer records and time cards.
Pre-website
days Chris could buy a 1”, black-and-white ad in The New Yorker for $800. Search the October 19, 1992, issue online
and you’ll see one, on page 106, situated aside a review of Quentin Tarantino’s
movie “Reservoir Dogs”:
Why invest in furniture from a one-man shop on a dirt road in New Gloucester, Maine? CATALOG $5.00 C. H. BECKSVOORT FURNITUREMAKER Box 12, New Gloucester Maine 04260. (207) 926-4608
These ads
often led to a couple sales.
Additional
business matters he addresses in his book include mailing lists, public
relations, craft shows, galleries, selling direct, customer care and giving
back.
“There
were a lot of dead ends,” he says, when talking about the business side of
things. He started collecting catalogs from other woodworkers, not to copy them
but to be different. He learned that placing his work in galleries cut too much
into his profits and unless a show was indoors and juried, he skipped them.
“After
more than five decades, I can do the woodworking almost in the dark,” he writes
in “Shaker Inspiration.” “It’s the business end that’s a constant challenge,
and it keeps me on my toes.”
Chris
eventually built a 14 x 20 showroom on his property. “It takes effort to find
me,” he says. But a customer/fan who is willing to find him is one often
willing to purchase a piece. And having a designated space where customers can
see much of his work in person, touch surfaces, pull out drawers and run their
fingertips over carvings has been a great benefit, he says.
He works
alone and builds 20 to 30 custom pieces each year. They are all signed and
dated, and each piece has an embedded silver dollar in it, secreted away to the
delight of many customers. He estimates he’s built more than 850 pieces.
“I keep
trying to retire but it’s not happening yet,” he says. “I keep saying to
myself, ‘Where were these people 25 years ago?’” Right now he’s booked almost
to Christmas. There are five to six pieces he would like to design and build
for himself, “but the bills have to be paid first,” he says. Finding time for personal
prototypes is difficult.
The Gift of Simplicity
Chris and Peggy have two children, a son and daughter, both now grown but within easy driving distance. They also have one grandson who likes to push his bulldozer through little piles of sawdust in Chris’s shop.
Chris and Peggy’s $20,000 house (plus 25 acres) in 1977.
Still not a fan of hot weather, Chris says he enjoys Maine and the changing of the seasons, although he hates shoveling in the winter and isn’t a big fan of mowing in the summer. When they first moved to New Gloucester, they rented while looking for a house to buy. Eventually, in 1977, they saw an ad in the paper – a fully furnished house for sale on 25 acres for $20,000. In reality, there were only a couple pieces of furniture and the house required a significant amount of work. Chris and Peggy spent a year working on it, tearing out, redoing plumbing and wiring, adding insulation, sheet rocking and painting. They moved in in 1978.
The house last winter, with an added showroom, shop and two outbuildings.
With time Chris added a shop (Fine Woodworking featured it in their Tools & Shops 2019 Issue – you can take a tour of it here), garden shed and showroom. In the main house, there are built-ins in every room. They did a significant amount of landscaping, including planting hundreds of daffodils. They rebuilt stone walls and created trails through the woods. The land allows for gardening and Chris’s first love, forestry.
When
studying forestry all those years ago Chris remembers being handed a sheet of
paper with spaces numbered 1 through 100. Outside the university’s lab were
trees labeled with numbers – students had to identify them all. He did
well, and to this day he can identify most any tree in any season.
Climate
change has changed Maine’s winters, he says. The first winter he and Peggy
moved into the house the only heat source they had was a wood stove and the
temperature dropped to 44 below zero. The water in the washing machine froze.
“We haven’t seen temps like that in the past 30 to 40 years,” he says. They
also now have ticks and opossums and cardinals.
Every year
he buys a little calendar that he uses to track the daily temperature, first
frosts, the birth of a child, the addition of a dog (he’s had three huskies
over the years). “It’s not really a diary,” he says, “but every day I write two
or three lines of what happened, what we did.”
The house
and land, he says, is getting a little more difficult to maintain. With
thoughts of retirement on the horizon Chris and Peggy are considering moving to
something smaller.
These days
Chris sometimes slows down on Friday afternoons, as he and his colleagues did
at his first job at the wildlife research center. He still works Monday through
Friday, and he’ll occasionally finish up some work on a Saturday, after supper.
But he no longer puts in what used to be a solid 60 hours a week. He splits his
time between working in the shop and the business side of things – sending
out proposals, tracking down hardware, bookkeeping, taxes etc.
Chris
enjoys working in the garden, walking, going out to eat with friends, drinking
Scotch and listening to music. He has a Bose player in his shop and 4,000 songs
on his iPhone. His taste in music is varied – ’60s and ’70s rock, folk
music, jazz, classical, dulcimer music (but no opera or hip hop). Peggy is a
librarian and they both enjoy reading.
“Bookshelves are all over the house – we have way too many books,” he says. They’re filled with books about woodworking, Shakers and forestry. He typically doesn’t indulge in buying novels – those he gets from the library. He uses his books for research and owns almost every book on Shakers that has ever come out.
One of Chris’s nine tattoos.
Some folks may be surprised to learn that Chris has nine tattoos (you can see a few of them here). They include a butterfly joint, a maple leaf (because he likes working with maple and almost became a Canadian, he says), a white pine silhouette, a dovetail saw, a cross section of black walnut, a No. 5 plane, a black cherry tree, a chisel and, his newest, a Shaker peg (“a wink at my wife,” he says). “That’s it for now, unless the spirit moves me.”
The
Herbie Project
In the June 20, 2010, issue of Portland Press Herald,” Bob Keyes wrote an article titled “Herbie’s
come down, sadly. Happily, there’s a big upside.” Herbie was considered the biggest American elm
in New England, and started growing in Yarmouth in 1793.
“In 2010, the tree was beyond saving, and had to be cut
down,” Chris wrote in a September 2016 blog post. “Some of the branches were
over 4’ thick, and the trunk was over 10’ long and roughly 7’ at the butt end.
I joined the Herbie committee and suggested that we distribute the wood to
craftspeople throughout Maine. During the next nine months the branches were
cut up, and the trunk was sawn and the boards were kiln dried, and the wood was
distributed to woodworkers throughout the state. They made chairs, benches,
birds, baseball bats, cabinets, desks, tables, music stands, hundreds of bowls,
pens, a coffin, sculptures, cutting boards, and even an electric guitar.”
In November 2010, the items were auctioned off and the
Yarmouth Tree Trust netted about $40,000.
According to the Portland Press Herald article, Chris made a music stand, which was debuted at the Maine Festival of American Music: Its Roots and Traditions at the Shaker Meeting House in New Gloucester, hosted by the Portland String Quartet. The article also noted that the tree’s birth year, 1793, coincided with the establishment of the Sabbathday Lake Shaker community and its plans for the building of the 1794 Meeting House – which was where the festival’s concert took place.
Tailor counter. Photo by Dennis Griggs Photo.
Looking at Chris’s life as a whole, circles like this become
apparent. His love of forestry and trees and woodworking connect in a simple
and satisfying way as in the story about Herbie. His love of reading and
learning have translated in dozens of articles, books and workshops. He has
followed his father’s legacy, but on his own terms. And his philosophy on life,
rules, if you will, for good living, are seemingly so simple on the outside,
but require a sometimes surprising bit of complexity on the inside (much like
Shaker furniture):
“Only let
positive people influence you. Try to stick to your values. Leave a little
footprint. Be as creative as possible. Honesty and kindness go a long way.”
My daughter Madeline has a new set of Lost Art Press stickers up for sale in her etsy store. A set is $7. The stickers feature three new designs – two of them drawn by my daughter, Katherine.
Here are the details:
Lost Art Pets: Now that we’ve moved to our new place in Covington, Ky., the cats are frequent visitors to the bench room. Especially Bean, a three-legged cat who has become the WalMart greeter of our store. And also would like to smell your hair. Katherine drew Bean with dividers as a replacement leg.
Anarch-Bee: Katherine drew this new anarchist bee logo for a new wax product we are working on (more details soon). We love bees, which commonly symbolized woodworkers in pre-industrial illustrations. And we use beeswax all the time.
Carpal Tunnel Saw Company: The logo of one of our sponsors. Great saws – just remember to take your anti-inflammatories before using them.
The stickers are high quality – 100-percent vinyl and suitable for outdoor use. And the proceeds from the sticker sales help support Madeline as she embarks on getting her doctorate degree at the University of Pittsburgh.
We’re busy getting ready for the Lie-Nielsen Hand Tool Event (as evidenced by Christopher Schwarz’s full-on cleaning and organizational mode…he even made me dust and arrange the bourbon bottles yesterday). The event is Friday, Sept. 20 from 10 a.m.-6 p.m and Saturday, Sept. 21 from 10 a.m.-5 p.m.
Lie-Nielsen will have its full line of tools here for you to try out – and you are heartily encouraged to actually use them – plus the company offers free shipping for event orders.
Lost Art Press will, of course, have the full line of books and Crucible tools on hand for perusal and purchase – but perhaps most exciting is the drawing for a free copy of the deluxe “Roubo on Furniture.” Measuring 12-1/4″ wide x 17-1/4″ tall by almost 2-1/4″ thick, “Roubo on Furniture” is the largest and most luxurious book LAP has printed. No purchase necessary – just write your name on a provided slip of paper, drop it in the hopper, and you’re entered. We’ll draw the winning name on Saturday at 4:45 p.m. – you need not be present to win. If the winner is local, I’ll drop your book off; if not, we’ll ship it.
‘Roubo on Furniture,’ cat for scale.
Chris, Brendan Gaffney and I are happy to give shop tours, answer questions about woodworking, demonstrate techniques and more. And I’ll have some copies of The Chronicle, the journal of the Early American Industries Association, to give away.
Andy Glenn joins us from the Berea, Ky., Woodworking School at Pine Croft – which you might recognize by its former name, the Kelly Mehler School of Woodworking. Berea College is continuing the fine tradition set by Kelly, with engaging workshops that use both traditional and contemporary methods (and in a gorgeous setting and shop, to boot). The school will soon be announcing workshops and guest instructors for the upcoming year.
At 2 p.m. on Friday, Andy will demonstrate how to weave a hickory bark seat, and at 2 p.m. on Saturday, he’ll give a chisel-sharpening demo – plus assorted benchwork throughout the event.
Donna Hill and Bob Compton from the Ohio Valley chapter of the Society of American Period Furniture Makers (SAPFM) will be on hand with examples of their stunning work. Throughout the event, Donna will be demonstrating stringing and inlay – a decorative technique that can be applied to both period and contemporary work. For those who don’t already know, SAPFM is a membership organization dedicated to the understanding, education and appreciation of American period furniture.
Mark Hicks is traveling from his Missouri shop with his small (but mighty) show bench, as well as an in-progress cherry shavehorse featuring the new Galbert Adjuster and a lower platform suitable for those with shorter torsos. He’ll also have a pile of Shavehorse Builder’s Kits, T-shirts and stickers. Plus, Mark will let you know about his workbench-building classes (and perhaps a few surprises).
Note: This is the last preview chapter I’ll be posting of the expanded edition of “The Anarchist’s Design Book.” The remainder of the new chapters will be released with the expanded edition at the end of 2019.
Up into my 30s, I wrote songs as much as I wrote newspaper or magazine stories, and I was always bewildered about where melody came from. How, after so many generations of births and deaths, could we still manufacture new melodies?
The answer is, of course, that we can’t.
Growing up in Arkansas in the 1970s, it was impossible to escape traditional music. You’d hear it at every church picnic, at the gas station and while eating at the Irish pub/barbecue restaurant. It was even piped into the town elevator.
Fingerpicking was like the fluoride in the water. Banjos hummed like the mosquitos in your ear.
I didn’t think much of it all until I encountered the alt.country band Uncle Tupelo in the 1990s. One of the bonus tracks on the CD “No Depression” was “John Hardy.” And the first time I heard the song I instantly began singing all the words.
John Hardy was a desperate little man He carried two guns every day He shot a man down on the West Virginia line They saw John Hardy getting away
It was the closest thing I’ve ever had to a repressed memory bubbling to the surface. I grabbed the CD case and saw the song was credited to Lead Belly. That was weird. It wasn’t a Lead Belly song I’d ever heard. After some digging, I found the source of where I’d learned the song: the Carter Family.
Then, like every aspiring songwriter, I soon found that the Carter Family was the source code for an astonishing mountain of American rock, folk, pop, blues and bluegrass. That statement sounds like hyperbole, but it’s not.
True story: While on tour with her husband, Johnny Cash, June Carter once demonstrated this deep truth by switching on the radio in their tour bus. About every third song, June began singing the Carter Family version over the version playing through the radio. Different lyrics. Different instrumentation. Same song.
This small songwriting revelation (which nearly every American songwriter has) turned out to be as important to my furniture making as it was to my love of music. And so, if you’ll indulge me a bit, learning a little about Sara, Maybelle and A.P. Carter can help you understand vernacular furniture and how to design it.
Bristol, 1927
Many musical historians and musicians peg the beginning of country music to a series of recording sessions in Bristol, Tenn., in the summer of 1927. Ralph Peer of the Victor Talking Machine Co. toured through several Southern cities equipped with new recording technology and a desire to capture examples of “old time” or hillbilly music.
He attracted local artists with newspaper advertisements and the opportunity to get paid for their work. While in Bristol (a town that bleeds over into Virginia), he snared his biggest catch, the Carter Family. Led by A.P. Carter, the group was comprised of three people named Carter: A.P., who arranged the songs and occasionally sang; his wife, Sara, who played autoharp and had an enchanting and powerful voice; and Maybelle, who played guitar (plus other instruments), sang and was Sara’s cousin.
The Carter Family recorded six songs with Peer over two days during that first recording session. The three were paid and they returned to their Virginia homes. After the royalty checks began coming in, A.P. sought to record more songs (the Carter Family eventually recorded more than 250 songs, according to the documentary “The Winding Stream”). And this is where things get interesting.
The songs that the Carter Family brought to record were a combination of traditional tunes, original songs the three had written, plus songs that A.P. had “collected” and then adapted – changing the words, adding a beat here or there, tidying it up.
So that’s why you’ll see a song such as “John Hardy” attributed to three or four (or a dozen) people. These were songs that were transmitted from person to person and that changed based on who was singing them, when and where. The songs didn’t belong to one person. They belonged to the whole culture.
These melodies are deeply embedded into the American psyche – especially among Southerners – and it can be shocking (and sometimes uncomfortable) to have the curtain pulled away.
Listen to the Carter Family song “Wayworn Traveler,” sometimes titled “Palms of Victory.” (You can find it on the contemporary album “Carter Family: Storms are on the Ocean.”) The song is commonly regarded as a hymn attributed to a New York reverend from 1836.
Bob Dylan rewrote the song as “Paths of Victory” in the early 1960s. Then he rewrote it again as “The Times They Are a Changin’.”
In my mind, there is nothing wrong or shameful about this process of evolution. Each artist adds or subtracts something from the original to suit the time or place. And the work rises or falls based on the talent of the writer or singer.
By the end of his life, A.P. Carter had traveled thousands of miles all over the South to collect the songs that he, Sara and Maybelle would then hone, record and perform. Their true genius was in acting as one of the most incredible funnels and filters of American song culture. (Also, Maybelle Carter happened to invent the concept of lead guitar with her “Carter scratch” style of playing. She was a pioneering bad-ass.)
For me, this way of looking at traditional music has profound implications when applied to vernacular furniture.
The Vernacular Pattern
As I mentioned at the beginning of this book, the high furniture styles tend to be transmitted via pattern books – basically big catalogs of ornate or expensive works that are connected to a big name such as Chippendale, Hepplewhite, Stickley or Maloof. That’s why we have schools of furniture that are connected to famous names. And, as a bonus, there’s a book to consult that lays out the boundaries of the style. Chippendale has its somewhat Chinese details and distinctive feet. Stickley has a particular joint and a particular material (quartersawn white oak). Maloof has a language of curves and joinery that is easily understood.
Higher-style music is similar. We have the works of Mozart, Bach, Brahms and the Beatles to endlessly parse and parley. There is (usually) a definitive body of work. And it’s fairly straightforward to say when a particular piece of work is either inside or outside of a particular style.
Vernacular music and furniture do not work that way. There is no “Book of Cletus” when it comes to backstools. No detailed drawings to tell us if a certain detail is proper or inadmissible. So the only thing we can do is study the furniture record, which mutates across time and state lines and is always incomplete. We’ll never see it all.
But if you see enough of it, then the form’s design elements become like a melody you’ve heard your entire life. You know what details and proportions create harmony. And what’s a wrong note. If you sing it enough times you probably will change the pitch to suit your vocal range. Or change a curve to better suit your spokeshave and skills. And when you encounter a new version of the form that you’ve never seen before, it can cause you to shift your work again in response.
The boundaries of what’s acceptable and what’s not are softer and more nebulous. But they are there.
Again, I like to think of vernacular furniture design as a shared melody. If your work is appealing, then others will sing along. In their hands and on their lips, your melody will endure and change over time. If, on the other hand, your work fails to resonate with others, then it dies alone at the curb, never to be sung again.
What Does This Mean to a Designer?
If you want to build in vernacular styles, I think you need to explore the forms for yourself. Building pieces from this book or other books on vernacular furniture is a start. But it’s like singing songs from a Pete Seeger songbook that you bought at the mall. That might be where it starts, but that’s definitely not how it ends.
Like A.P. Carter, you need to get in your car and drive to the next town to see what is happening there. And then adapt what you find to your needs.
As I build these forms over and over they change. You might not notice it from one chair to another, but every piece is a little different. Sometimes it’s because the material demands it. Right now I’m building a series of four armchairs in white oak, and the seat material is thicker than usual. I could spend some extra time planing it down, or I could slightly increase the thickness of the legs to look harmonious with the seat. Or increase the bevel on the seat to look harmonious with thinner legs. Either change might push my next set of chairs in that direction.
John Brown, the famous Welsh chairmaker, noted this sort of evolution in his columns for Good Woodworking magazine. After making seats using thick material for years, he was once backed into a situation where he had to use some thinner stock for the seat. It became a turning point for his work, and his chairs became lighter from that day forward. But they still looked unquestionably like Welsh stick chairs.
The change might be due to a mistake. The rake and splay of the front legs of my chairs changed when one day I set my bevel gauge to the wrong resultant angle – a full 6° off. But the result was pleasing, so that’s now the angle I use every day.
Other times, changes come because I’ve seen a beautiful old piece or a new piece by a fellow woodworker I admire. There might be something about it – a curve, an angle, an overall pose – that pushes my work in a different direction. I might not even realize I’m absorbing it at first.
And when I feel guilty for it, I again remember A.P. Carter. Collecting those songs preserved them from extinction and ensured their place in our nation’s memory. Likewise, the only way to ensure vernacular furniture survives against the onslaught of manufactured flat-pack pieces is to build the stuff again and again. To allow it to change with the needs of the maker and the tools and materials at hand.
I also think it’s healthy to reject dogma and allow techniques to change as well. Like when Dylan went electric at the Newport Folk Festival in 1965.
Vernacular stuff doesn’t have to be built out of riven green wood (just like folk music doesn’t require an acoustic guitar). It can be built out of what you have on hand. If that’s riven green wood, use that. If it’s poplar and oak from the home center, use that. The same goes for tools. Vernacular furniture generally requires a smaller tool kit than the high-style stuff, but almost anything can be in that kit. My first piece was built using a jigsaw, drill and block plane. Nothing more. Use what you got. Today I use a band saw, bench planes and lots of other tools. And the tool kit neither diminishes nor improves my work.
There are fewer limits than you think.
In fact, many times we think of “tradition” as a thing that reduces the scope of our work. I would argue that idea is false. Traditional music and traditional furniture – when disconnected from the high styles – offer immense freedom for you as a maker and a composer.
There is a vast supply of forms and melodies all around you, ready to be collected, changed, rebuilt and adored. Look for them and listen. They are the mundane objects that escape attention – the background music stitched into your heart.