My final blog entry for Popular Woodworking Magazine is here.
For the last 22 years, one month and 29 days, I gave the magazine the best work I could do. They own it now – every word. I don’t know what they’ll do with the blog and the hundreds of articles I wrote, but that’s OK. That was the bargain.
I am not walking away empty-handed. There’s something I took from the relationship that I own. Actually two things: I learned how to run a publishing business. And I learned how not to run a publishing business.
When I started at the magazine in 1996, F&W Publications, Inc. was a technologically backward company. Not everyone had computers, and no one had Internet access. Company announcements were made constantly using a PA system. It was like working at a Greyhound bus terminal.
The pay was terrible – I took a 23 percent pay cut when I signed on. But the company’s finances were golden. It was a family-run company with zero debt. They owned their building outright. They paid their invoices and bills on the day they arrived. And most of the managers had been there for decades.
It was a company with odd, odd rules. Every day had a “quiet hour” where we weren’t allowed to use our phones. People who cursed in front of a certain family member were fired. You got a Christmas bonus every year. Sometimes it was a tiny amount of money. Sometimes is was a turkey. I couldn’t tell if these were rewards or a sick punishment.
The family demanded that we keep our magazine’s editorial content crafty-oriented and decidedly downmarket.
The Rosenthal family sold the business to venture capitalists, and everything changed. It became all about money. It wasn’t better or worse. Just different. As editors, we were free to do what we wanted with our magazines’ content. We just had to make money. We got better computers (only five years out of date) and pay raises.
And like all money-hungry companies, they started to delay paying people – authors, vendors etc. – to make their quarterly statements look good. They still do.
The company became, in my view, just a big pile of debt.
None of the above statements are criticisms. People are free to run their businesses as they please. But we have the same freedom. That’s why Lost Art Press has never taken a loan. We pay our vendors, authors and contractors immediately and generously. We offer our authors editorial freedom and strive to maintain their voice and point of view (even if it disagrees with ours). We have decent equipment. And we don’t have a quiet hour or bonus poultry.
I am thankful to everyone at F&W for teaching me about the workings, successes and failings of a publishing company, even if they didn’t mean to.
Let’s hope John and I made the right choices. I guess we’ll see in about 20 more years or so.
Our youngest daughter graduates from high school in May and, if all goes as planned, Lucy and I will move house in July. From the leafy streets of Fort Mitchell, Ky., to the two floors above our storefront in Covington.
That’s not a lot of time. Not only do we have to fix up the living space in Covington, we have to get our house in Fort Mitchell ready to sell. As a result, I’m dedicating every Sunday possible to carpentry, painting and generally divesting us of accumulating stuff during 22 years in one place.
I won’t be blogging about this stuff much – I know you are here for woodworking, and I am, too. But as a result of this work, you might hear less from me on the blog and more from our other contributors (and a huge cheer went up in the land).
So here we go.
— Christopher Schwarz
The bar area when we bought the storefront four years ago. Just a reminder that we have come a long way.
This is the earliest representation of a Windsor chair. It is from a mid 12th century manuscript of the Laws of Hywel Dda. The picture is of a judge sitting on a chair. Note the tapered legs, arm rests and high back.
Probably the first record of a back chair is in the manuscript of the laws of Hywel Dda (Howell the Good), a 10th century Welsh king. The surviving document, inscribed in the middle of the 12th century, has an illustration of a judge sitting on what is clearly a back or stick chair.
Plate 14. “Pura Wallia …” These three arm-chairs are all of similar type: (a) is from Caernarvonshire; (b) from Cardiganshire, and (c) from Radnorshire. They represent a total Welshness from the mid 18th century.
The history of the English chair since about 1800 is well recorded. The first chair factories with division of labour were working during the Napoleonic Wars. There are no such records of the early Welsh chairs, or the late ones for that matter. The stick chair on this side of the Atlantic is a peasants’ chair, of little value, and therefore not worth recording. Welsh stick chairs were not built by chair-makers, but almost certainly were the work of the village carpenter, wheelwright or coffin-maker. A house would be built by a group of people from the area, men of various skills who could afford the time. They were not builders as such. The trades were for the important things in life, the blacksmith and the wheelwright for agriculture. Household wares, such as furniture, were the luxuries of life which came after the provision of food. People had to do several things. A farmer might be a good hand at plastering, or the blacksmith’s wife made candles. Furniture was made by men who were handy with tools. We see only the best of it, poorly made pieces have long since fallen apart. Many of the implements used on the farm had components of wood: plough beams, harrows, wheelbarrows, sleds and gates, and for economic reasons a good proportion of these would have been user-made.
Plate 8. (a) and (c) are examples of chairs which seem to come from mid to north Wales and have three or four heavy untapped sticks; (b) is a handsome chair with a slightly ‘saddled’ seat. Chair (d) has great charm, and has been ‘modified’. The heavy arm and turned posts are interesting.
Tracing the provenance of individual country chairs is a complicated business, probably with few exceptions, impossible. There is no scholarly standard work to refer to. Chairs with similar characteristics are found in different parts of the country (Plate 14). They cannot, with any certainty, be regionalised. Carmarthenshire, with large areas of good farming land and a high proportion of better houses, is known for the quality and elegance of its locally-built furniture. Chairs found in the county, whilst unmistakably Welsh, have a greater sophistication than those made in the more remote parts further north (Plate 20). Dating Welsh stick chairs is very difficult. Whether these Carmarthenshire chairs were made concurrently with their more ‘folk art’ cousins from further north is difficult to say, but it looks as though they might have been. There is the possibility of another regional style. Some Welsh chairs have a wide lozenge- shaped seat, with only three or four untapered, heavier long sticks at the back. This type appears to come from the north (Plate 8, a & c).
Plate 20. A pair of chairs from Carmarthenshire, probably dating from the last quarter of the 18th century.
As the standard of living improved, throughout Wales primitive furniture and chairs were made. By whom and for whom it is difficult to say. For certain, these items did not find their way into the squire’s house and they were almost entirely rural. The one thing about the chairs is that they all fulfilled the strict definition of ‘Windsor’, in that they grew from a solid wooden seat, having legs and sticks socketed into that seat. The termination of the long back sticks was normally a comb, that is a piece of wood, sometimes curved, sometimes straight, into which the tops of the sticks were mortised. Rarely, a few later chairs have a steamed bow or hoop (Plates 16 & 20). Many of the chairs terminated at the arm, that is the rear sticks did not come up to the level of shoulders or head. These arm-chairs, quite common, are the forerunner of the smoker’s bow or captain’s chair (Plate 14).
Plate 16. This chair illustrates what happens when a country-maker tries to copy his more sophisticated cousins. This is an English chair, made in Wales.
What is it that makes these chairs so attractive that now they have become highly sought after collectors’ items? Could it be some extension of the old Celtic art which makes them so appealing? – a naive folk art uncluttered by association with the contemporary urban styles. Many characteristics of the design are extremely good, and represent what we look for today in a well proportioned chair.
David Savage, author of “The Intelligent Hand,” is in the hospital and not doing well. Before he leaves us, I want to get something off my chest.
I met David in person in 2014, but I had known about him and his work for many years. On this side of the Atlantic Ocean, David’s designs (which are incredible) never get a lot of press. But on occasion his articles about hand tools, business and the craft cross the sea.
His blunt, some would say “pungent,” tone rubs many people the wrong way. He rattles manufacturers when he states his opinion about tool steels (he hates A2), the state of tool manufacturing (fairly sorry) and honing guides (also not a fan).
I loved his columns in The Woodworker and Furniture & Cabinetmaking magazines. While I disagree with him on some points (and who cares about points?), I admire his courage to say what he thinks, which is based on long experience. He doesn’t equivocate. And he does not give a stuff (his words) whether you like it or not.
I was eager to meet him. When the chance arrived in 2014, I was teaching a tool chest class at Warwickshire College. David drove up from London to meet me for an early dinner. When I told the students and instructors my plans with David, they were quick to warn me. The short version: They’d heard through the grapevine that David is difficult, wickedly opinionated, pigheaded, even rude.
I walked to the restaurant and found David outside. We shook hands, and within five minutes I knew he was going to be a friend for life.
No matter what you’ve heard from others, David is a lovely man. Generous to a fault. Self-deprecating (also to a fault). Terribly honest. And has no secrets (that I could find).
While all that is important for you to know, I also want you to know that my relationship with David fixed me (I can’t think of a better word) in many ways as a human being.
Like David, my writing has always attracted strong detractors, ever since my first piece was published in my 8th-grade newspaper (a profile of a bunch of snobby homecoming queen candidates). Throughout my career, I’ve been baffled by the hate letters. It’s one of the big reasons I shut down my public email – I was weary of the steady diet of threats (mostly beatings, but one Klan death warning), threats of lawsuits and people who wished ill on me, my business, my family.
I’ve compared notes with fellow writers. Except for the political columnists, I have a way-above-average hate magnet. To be honest, this criticism eroded and sometimes shredded my psyche. I’m sure this was the intent of the detractors. And I was a loser in the battle.
David was the first writer I ever met who had the same hate magnet. But he was better than me. He did not brood. Instead, he carried on with his life and work. He didn’t back down, compromise his ideals or even mellow (“The Intelligent Hand” is evidence of that).
Having observed David for the last four years, I now have the courage to follow his example. His business and his creative spirit survived bankruptcy and becoming radioactive in his own trade. (Side note: David said that after his bankruptcy, one of the first people to call him with words of encouragement was John Brown.)
After spending 16 days with David in Devon, I rewrote “The Anarchist’s Design Book,” and it became a book with a much sharper edge. A book that was much closer to my thoughts as a woodworker. This summer, as I edited and designed “The Intelligent Hand,” I felt the last of my inhibitions fall away. (Thank you, David.)
Because of him, my next book might be a monster. And now I don’t give a stuff, either.
I don’t have the words to fully state my gratitude. My thanks will be in the form of my next book. I only hope he will be here to read it. Who knows? Crazier things have happened.
These bookcases are similar to a set I built for the June 2011 issue of Popular Woodworking Magazine, which has the complete plans with step photos and instruction. You can download a free SketchUp model of the bookcase here.
The Story Behind the Shelves
I’m allowed to quote myself, right? Here, then, is the backstory on these shelves. Read it before I issue myself a cease-and-desist letter.
I like to think of Thomas Jefferson’s personal library as America’s first “Bookmobile.”
When the British burned down the nation’s capitol in 1814, the inferno took with it many of the books owned by the government of our young nation. Lucky for us, Jefferson had a personal library of about 6,700 books – an astonishing accomplishment for the time.
And after some negotiations, Jefferson agreed to cede his entire library at Monticello to Congress for the sum of $23,950. The question was, how to transport 6,700 books from Virginia north to Washington, D.C., with horse-drawn wagons.
Lucky for us, Jefferson was a clever man. He stored his precious library in pine boxes that were designed specifically to travel. While it isn’t known if Jefferson designed the book boxes (or “book presses” as they are sometimes called), they do bear the mark of his cleverness.
For when the day came to transport this massive chunk of knowledge, the process was straightforward. Scrap paper was stuffed among the books to protect them, then a lid was nailed over the front of each unit and it was loaded onto a wagon and carted to Washington.
Jefferson’s collection of books (which continues to make headlines even today) was the foundation for our Library of Congress. His method for organizing his books (memory, reason and imagination) pushed us into a more modern classification system. Until that time it was common to organize books by height or color.
But What About the Boxes?
While a good deal is known about the books in Jefferson’s collection that he sold to Congress, far less is known about the stackable boxes that he used to store his library at Monticello. By examining the written records, officials at Monticello built six bookcases for the museum in 1959 that are a good guess at what would have housed Jefferson’s library (though he could have had as many as 20 of these units, if you do the math).
Since the day I started woodworking, I have been concerned about amassing information on the craft. For me, the written word enhances my personal experience in the shop, and it is a way to stay in touch with the craft while I am on the road, in bed or sitting on the couch.
As my library got out of hand sometime about 2005, I decided I needed to build something to store all my woodworking books. I also wanted something that would allow them to be easily transported when my wife and I leave our house after the kids are off to college, and we launch the next phase of our lives.
And so I became interested in Jefferson’s book boxes. I read the original letters that describe how the books were transported. I used the standard measurements for books of the day to help fill in the blanks when it came to designing the three different case sizes Jefferson describes in his correspondence.
Oh, and what was the joinery on these boxes? Who knows. Perhaps the boxes were nailed together, as there were as many as 150 individual book boxes to hold the nearly 6,700 books.
But I prefer to think that our third president, who was familiar with the principles of joinery, would insist on something more substantial. And so, despite the fact that no surviving examples of these book boxes exist, I built each of these units using through-dovetails with mitered shoulders at the corners. (Here’s a video showing how to do it.) The backs are shiplapped and nailed on to the carcases.
This approach to building a box is typical for the time, and I bet that my modern book boxes would easily survive a wagon journey from Monticello to Washington, D.C.
The bookcase from the back. Here you can see the battens that keep all the components in line.
About This Set of Bookshelves
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more OCD (apologies to poor Brendan and Megan, who suffer my wrath when the shop’s coffee mugs are unwashed). So when faced with making a new set of these shelves, I decided to ratchet up the insanity.
At the customer’s request, all the visible boards are full-width (I hid a couple glue-ups and buried the seams below the tailboards). At my stupid brain’s request, I made the ends of the cases all one single board with the grain matched all the way up the 7’2” case. It took months (and cash) to find the right 14”-wide walnut boards.
To make it harder, I made the dovetails line up all the way up the case sides, a detail I cribbed from Jameel Abraham when he built his version of these bookcases.
Then, because that wasn’t hard enough, I made the backboards match all the way up the case. Yesterday I juggled 30 pine backboards that had to all line up or it would look like crap. Also, the way I staggered the widths of the backboards was a math equation. Let’s just agree that I made this harder than it should be.
The bookshelves are finished with shellac. The backboards are finished with two coats of super blonde shellac. The cases and plinth are finished with three coats of garnet shellac.
And now I just have to build the crate. This sucker has to go on a truck bound for Michigan at 8 a.m. Friday. This weekend, I’ll take it easy and complete a couple small projects for a customer in California. Then, on Monday, I start the most difficult and involved project so far (besides my kids). It’s a massive three-tiered campaign chest with three transit cases that store the disassembled chest components and then stack as a wardrobe.
