I’m teaching two courses in Munich this October at the new and expanded workshop for Dictum GmbH.
Today I visited the new workshop, and it is impressive. Located by the Munich Ostbanhof (east train station), the new facilities are flooded with natural light and have beautiful new German workbenches. And downstairs is Dictum’s Munich store and a huge array of choices for food, culture and lodging.
The classes are taught in English (with German expletives). If you are interested in handwork or getting started in chairmaking, here are the details:
Staked Furniture: 3-legged Stool Oct. 8-9, 2018
I taught this class for the first time this summer, and it is a fun couple of days. In the class I explain how to do compound-angle joinery without math or even numbers. Plus, all the chairmaking techniques I have compiled and refined during my time as a chairmaker. If you do flat work and right-angle projects, this class will open up a new world for you.
Build a Sawbench Oct. 10-12, 2018
This three-day class is great for new woodworkers. The pace is relaxed, and we get to explore all sorts of odd corners of the craft. The last time I taught this class, we also made winding sticks, straightedges and other useful workshop appliances.
Munich is a great city – very easy for international travelers to get to and navigate.
One area of the new Dictum workshop in Munich.
Some of you might be wondering if this new round of classes at Dictum indicates I might teach more in the coming months and years. And the answer is: kinda. I’ve resolved to keep a limited teaching schedule until my youngest daughter has graduated so that I can be a good father.
After her graduation in May 2019 I hope to teach about four weeks a year. (Teaching 18 classes in a year turned out to be a bad idea for my psyche.) I’ll probably teach a couple short courses at our storefront and maybe a week-long course somewhere else (if anyone will have me).
No trespassing. I like to go places that haven’t been interpreted by museum personnel or academics (nothing against these people, but I like to draw my own conclusions). This unrestored coastal artillery facility is nothing like the touristy one down the road.
Sometimes I wonder why I research old workbenches, build them and write about them. I know my critics and friends wonder the same thing.
The truth is, I have a gland – well, it feels like a gland – deep inside my torso. It’s located a bit above my tailbone and in front of the base of my spine. Ever since I was a boy, that area would tingle and throb when I ventured into places I wasn’t allowed.
(My critics would say the location of that gland – or whatever it is – is also where a lot of crap is produced in the human body.)
I was 6 or 7 the first time I felt it. My family attended First Presbyterian Church in Fort Smith, Ark., which is downtown and surrounded by empty buildings from the town’s 19th-century heyday. Next to the church was the derelict Goldman Hotel, a landmark six-story building built in 1910 that was the center of the town’s social scene until World War II.
The building was shut to the public at about the time my family moved to Fort Smith in 1973 (and demolished in the 1990s). But I spent every Sunday and Wednesday in its shadow and soon began sneaking out of Sunday school to explore the hotel through an opening on the building’s west side.
Though the Goldman was dilapidated – it had been an apartment building in its last days – there were remnants of its glory and its rich ornamentation throughout. Furniture. Light fixtures. Tiles. Mouldings.
That was the first time I ever felt that odd tingle. It was better than any high I have achieved with alcohol (or the banana peels I smoked in college). And I have chased after that feeling my entire life.
I have a thing for old and abandoned places. I love to explore overgrown concrete battlements that line harbors and rivers. Abandoned houses – we had a creepy overgrown one on our farm – are like a sip of bourbon. Multi-level factories filled with garbage, graffiti and old equipment are like a multi-day bender.
I knew I was wrong in the head (or the gland) in 2012 when I became halfcrazed about buying an old brewery in Covington, Ky. It had two flooded subbasements and a network of unexplored lagering tunnels that staggered off below the old city.
During a tour of that building, I encountered a deep pit in its basement. I threw a rock down the hole and didn’t hear it splash or hit bottom.
“Where does it go?” I asked the real estate agent.
Her reply: “We have no idea.”
I thought: “I have a flashlight and rope in my truck.” Behind me, I heard my wife, Lucy, call out: “Nope! We are done here!”
It probably was the right decision.
At other times, the gland acts up when I’m not in physical danger, but when I’m on the precipice of obsession. One week I flew to New York City and visited Joel Moskowitz of Tools for Working Wood. The highlight of that trip was paging through his 20th-century reprint of A.J. Roubo’s “l’Art du menuisier.” Like most woodworkers, I had seen the workbench illustrated in Plate 11 of Roubo’s multi-volume book many times before. But I hadn’t seen Roubo’s whole work – nearly 400 pages of plates. And many of the plates showed this simple bench in use for all manner of operations, from installing moulding in an apartment to sandshading veneer for marquetry.
While sitting on Joel’s couch with this giant tome on my lap, I became as intoxicated as the day I first ducked into a broken window at the Goldman Hotel. The feeling was so powerful that it verged on physical pain.
When I returned to Cincinnati, I felt physically compelled to build that workbench. I ripped up the editorial calendar for the 2005 issue of Woodworking Magazine and presented a new plan to the magazine’s staff to satisfy my personal lust: Build the 18th-century Roubo workbench using yellow pine (to make it less expensive).
I offered to do all the work – building, writing and illustrating – so no one objected. Or perhaps they were wary of crossing me because I looked a bit crazed. I had drafted my plan the night before and hadn’t slept much.
Building that first Roubo workbench and putting it to work was like mainlining the unknown for me – like exploring a forgotten Soviet missile silo or finding a passage to catacombs beneath my house.
Building that Roubo bench led to making the Holtzapffel workbench – a German/English hybrid. Then a Nicholson bench – the classic English workbench – and about a dozen variants of benches from Europe, the U.K. and North America.
It has been a 13-year obsession with no end in sight.
This morning about 4 a.m. I sat bolt upright in bed when the bells at the Niederaltaich Abbey began making an end-of-the-world clanging. Instead of cursing, however, I laid back and felt a small measure of solidarity with the noisemakers.
One of the things I love about teaching (or assisting a teacher) is listening to the students discuss how they accumulate woodworking knowledge. During the last few years of careful listening, I can see how I – as a communicator – am becoming obsolete.
This is not a complaint. I welcome my obsolescence and am happy to stare at it in the face over a beer.
For now, the world belongs to the YouTube woodworker. Advertisers – even car companies – are pouring money into the sector. More important, my students’ conversations revolve around the personalities, projects and exploits of the YouTubers.
This is not a complaint. Maintaining a YouTube channel is damn hard work. Finding an audience has always been the key to surviving in the media profession. And I’ve never chased advertising dollars.
Video is not for me. For me, the best way to learn woodworking is through print and in person. Video bores me to tears. (Yes, I’ve done it. I hated it. I did it to please people I like – not myself.) My brain sees video as inefficient. “Skipping to the good parts” never works. So I have concluded that I have a fundamental disconnect. I would rather read a book, draw on a sheet of paper or go to the dentist than watch someone on my phone build something.
It might have something to do with the way I view sports. I love to play. I hate to watch.
All this is to say that I can feel myself hunkering down for a long winter. Print is – for the most part – in decline. I refuse to give up on it. In fact, I have structured my life so that even if print is flushed down the toilet, processed at a waste treatment plant and then squirted out at some sausage plant in New Jersey, you can’t put me out of business.
My plan is to make woodworking books until I die. Our audience might defect to the short-shorts and man-bun dancing monkeys, but I’ve decided to let the people in 50 or 60 years decide if John and I are doing the right thing.
After you’re worm food and cannot rise to your own defense, that’s the true test.
This idea saturates me here at Niederaltaich Abbey, where I’m teaching woodworking for the next seven days. For the most part, the world has left the monks here behind. And they live a life that is entrenched in an older way.
Brown robes are not my thing (my color analyst says I’m a winter), but yeah, I feel it. Especially at 4 a.m.
We are fast closing in on the publication date of the classic book “Welsh Stick Chairs” by John Brown. This compact book has had a profound effect on woodworkers and designers all over the world. It is the story of a chair that no one had a good name for. And how that chair changed the life of John Brown.
It’s impossible to capture the essence of the book in one blog entry – it’s part history lesson, part autobiography and part practical manual. But the following passage is one of my favorites.
“Welsh Stick Chairs” is available for pre-publication order now in our store. It’s $29, which includes domestic shipping. Full details on our quality edition can be found here.
— Christopher Schwarz
One day I saw a chair in the window of an antique shop in Lampeter. It was like a vision. I had never seen anything that had made so instant an impression on me. To my eyes this chair was beautiful. I had never had any interest in furniture or chairs. Like most people they were just the things you lived with. Now here was this lovely chair. I couldn’t afford to buy it, but I could make one like it. Well, that is what I did. I made one. It took a long time. Chairs of simple form like the stick chair are surprisingly tricky to make. When you’re building them you have to work from points in the air, angles of sticks, angles of legs; there are so many variables. Anyway, I was quite proud when I finished my chair. It looked alright. Of course, I wasn’t able to put a century or two of patina on it. Now, twelve-years-old, it begins to look right. Family “treatment” and a few thousand hours of bum polishing have done the trick!
At this stage I was interested enough to look for books on the subject. There are quite a few, both American and English. I still hadn’t realised that what I had seen in that Lampeter shop was something quite rare and unique – a Welsh chair. Then it was just a Windsor chair. I went to museums. I visited High Wycombe where there is a museum devoted entirely to Windsor chairs. They have a very comprehensive selection of Wycombe factory chairs and English regional chairs. I don’t think there were any Welsh chairs. The English chairs did not have the same spontaneity the same verve as their Welsh counterparts.
I enjoyed my youth. After the valleys I thought England was wonderful. The war started and we could not live in London, and through a series of events of which I have no knowledge, we ended up with a small-holding in the wilds of Kent. (There were wilds in Kent in those days!) We had no electricity, gas or sanitation, we grew much of our own food and kept chickens and a pig. We didn’t realise it then, but we were living the ‘Good Life’. We made few demands on the world’s resources, and I was happy. So, as the Lampeter chair was one step towards my rehabilitation, the building of a tin shed in a field I bought, and a change to the simple life, completed my return. I live very happily without electricity or any other services. I have a workshop, a wood stove and good health. There’s a saying applied to yachts, which applies equally to life, “Add lightness – and simplify.”
A neighbour asked me to build him a chair like mine. I tried to – but it came out different. It was alright, but it wasn’t the same chair. My neighbour was pleased. He has the chair now, he keeps it in the bookshop he owns. It then occurred to me that the reason for the diversity of pattern in the old Welsh chairs was that the makers did other things as well. They were not chair-makers as such, they were wheelwrights, coffin-makers, carpenters, even farmers. When there was need for a chair, somebody in the village made it, or they made their own. They didn’t have patterns and jigs for continuous production. They had no consistent supply of uniform material. They used their eyes and their experience. It was like a sculptor doing his work, they ‘thought’ the chair, then they built their ‘think’. Some of these chairs are a disaster to sit on, most uncomfortable, but they all have a kind of primitive beauty.
A constellation of carvers will soon be gathering in Plymouth, Massachusetts for Greenwood Fest 2018 so I thought a taste of non-European spoons, ladles and scoops (some ceremonial, some for daily use) might be in order.
Africa
Ladle (Wakemia), ca. 1870, the Dan People. Met Museum.
Let’s start big with the wakemia, or wunkirmian, of the Dan people of Liberia and Cote d’Ivoire. These ceremonial ladles, which can be up to two feet long, are carved for the woman with the greatest reputation for hospitality. Wakemia translates as “spoon associated with feasts” and the large bowl of the ladle is a representaion of the generosity of the honored woman. In this example the bowl is shaped into a large leaf and the crest-like handle is intricately carved.
The wakemia can be carved in many different forms. The handle end is often carved with a human or animal head. One remarkable form is the handle carved to represent human legs. The photo above shows the detail on two different spoons (both positioned on stands).
Madagascar. Met Museum.
These two spoons are from Madagascar. The bowl shapes are different, but they share deceptively detailed handles.
Zambia, the Lozi people. British Museum.
Was the carver inspired by a lightning bolt? Was he following the zigs and zags of the piece of wood he chose to use?
It is not uncommon to see patterns, especially those with spiritual meaning, repeated in textiles, weavings and carvings. The spoon carver may have taken his inspiration come from one of the traditional patterns used in the woven baskets of the Lozi.
The shapes of plants and animals significant to the a culture’s religious beliefs and livelihood are often incorporated into items used in daily life.
Two very different spoons from Tanzania, with some similarity in the density of chip carving on the handles. Each spoon is likely from a different ethic group in Tanzania.
Tanzania. Both from the British Museum.
The top with its deep bowl and built-in spoon rest is the perfect serving spoon, while the porridge spoon on the bottom is more tour-de-force than spoon.
Ivory coast. Left: Sotheby’s, right: Bonham’s.
The innovative Kulango spoon from the Ivory Coast is a spoon on one end and pestle on the other. Although it is a utilitarian item it could easily be viewed as a sculpture. In fact, more than a few 20th century painters and sculptors were influenced by African art and everyday items.
A Dan spoon carver.
Two felines converse over a turtle, Lozi people, Zambia. British Museum.
Bird figure on handle, Zambia. British Museum.
An Asante spoon with zigzags and circles, Ghana. British Museum.
Perforated spoon and stripes on the handle, possibly Sotho, South Africa. British Museum.
Zimbabwe. British Museum.
Asia
This old Korean scoop has seen a lot of use and has a turtle shape. It is one of those things that gets passed down from one generation to the next and no one remembers who made it or when.
Toraja people, Sulawesi, Indonesia. Top: Met Museum, bottom: British Museum.
The Toraja live in a mountainous area of the island of Sulawesi. Although the top example appears to be the more elegant of the two, both spoons have a similar overall shape with a blunt end, are curved (the bottom one less so) and have a split-tail handle. The curve of these spoons is similar to the swooping roofs of traditional Toraja homes.
Sarawak, Baram River District, Borneo. British Museum.
The generous bowl and beautifully carved handle make this one of those spoons that complements the act of cooking and serving food. The ethic origin of the spoon is not definitive but the carving has similarities to a Melanau badek (dagger) sheath (left) and the carved crest of a hornbill bird made by the Iban (right).
Ifugao people, Luzon, Philippines. Left: British Museum, right: Sotheby’s.
The Ifugao from the northern part of Luzon decorate spoons with images of deities, an ancestor or a prominent person of the community. Pork or duck fat was traditionally used to polish the spoons. The area is known for its rice terraces and these spoons were used for serving rice and soups.
Spoons from indigenous groups of Taiwan. Top: Museum of Ethnic Cultures, Minza Univ., bottom: British Museum.
The spoon at the top is from the Paiwan. Many of their carvings are of snakes and this spoon captures the coil and scale pattern of a snake. The spoon on the bottom is from the Rukai. The Rukai often used boxwood, the bowl shape is leaf-like and the handle has geometric carving.
Ainu, Hokkado, Japan. Brooklyn Museum.
The Ainu are an indigenous people of northern Japan. One line of “spoon evolution” goes something like: cupped hand, shell, shell with handle, carved spoon. Here you go, shell with handle.
Ainu, Hokkaido, Japan. Brooklyn Museum.
If you look closely, there is carving on the handle of this Ainu ladle. In the gallery are two more Ainu spoons with some nice carving.
Tea which, spoon and bowl. Bottom: Met Museum.
Some spoon forms rarely change. The painting at the top is by Takeuchi Seiho (1864-1942). The bowl, jointed bamboo tea spoon and whisk are from an Edo era (18th century) traveler’s tea set.
The world’s largest rice spoon.
I have two of these rice spoons or scoops (regular size) made of bamboo and use them all the time, not just for rice. Next trip to Japan I am going to Miyajima to see this giant rice spoon made of zelkova wood. It is 7.7 meters long, 2.7 meters wide and weighs 2.5 metric tons (25’3” x 8’10” and 5512 lb). If there is a giant ball of string nearby I’m going there, too.
Bunum indigenous group of Taiwan. Minza University.
Rukai indigenous group, Taiwan. Minza University.
Honey spoon in a woodblock by Kubo Shunman (1757-1820), Edo era. Met Museum.
Two Ainu spoons. Top: British Museum, bottom: Brooklyn Museum.
Postcard from Itsukushima (or Miyajima), late Meiji-Taisho era. MFA Boston.
The “New” World
Wari spoons. Left: Met Museum, right: Archivo Digital de Arte Peruano.
The Wari pre-dated the Inca (early Wari culture is dated around 1200 B.C) and had a rich craft tradition of carving, ceramics, weaving and stonework. As you can see below, they made an awesome hat-no way I would leave that out.
Like many cultures there is a repetition of design that gives a unity to their work.
Archivo Digital de Arte Peruano.
Whether the spoon handle is topped with a bird (top) or a human the design is part of a cohesive whole. There is uniformity but no dullness in the repeated forms.
Now that we have verified there was spoon carving in the New World well before any Europeans arrived, let’s head to the far north.
Tlingit, all collected in Alaska. National Museum of the American Indian (NMAI).
The Tlingit are known for carving animal forms and totems. The top left spoon incorporates a painted raven into the handle, while the spoon on the right has a totem. These two pieces were likely reserved for feasts or ceremonial use. On the bottom is a spoon that probably saw use every day.
Northwest Coast Peoples. British Museum.
I found many Northwest Coast spoons and ladles in British museums. One curator (I forget which museum) remarked there was a collection frenzy in the late 19th and early 20th centuries because of fears some of the Northwest Coast peoples would go extinct. Identification of cultures was not always exact or correct.
In the four spoons above there is a wonderfully rendered wolf, a halibut and an “every day” spoon. The long-handled spoon has a pleasing carving of a plant.
Detroit Institute of Arts.
The top left ladle is Powawatomi with a bear effigy and the top, the top right spoon is Chippewa with either an owl or a feline effigy ( I vote for feline). On the bottom is another Chippewa spoon (or ladle). It is a bit chipped, but who cares? Those curves above the bowl are lovely.
National Museum of the American Indian.
Three feast ladles. On the left is a ladle with a bird effigy and speckles from the Iowa people was collected in Oklahoma; top right is an Osage piece, also collected in Oklahoma. On the bottom right is a Fox ladle with a horse effigy collected in Iowa.
National Museum of the American Indian.
The top spoon is Wampanoag from Fall River, Massachusetts; the bottom piece is Mohegan from near Norwich, Connecticut.
Rochester Museum & Science Center, Rochester, NY.
Both ladles are Seneca from New York. The spoon at the top has a bird effigy, as do many North American spoons, and here you can see a close-up. Without intricate detail the bird is captured perfectly. The spoon handle on the bottom is a bit unusual, with the lower leg of a human and a hook added for hanging.
The wide bowl of the ladles, especially from the East Coast, are known as clam shell bowls. If we go back to “spoon evolution” there are many shells in museum collections labeled as “spoons” or “shell spoons.” The mighty quahog clams of the Atlantic coast were a perfect implement for use as a spoon or a small shovel. The Seneca ladle above is included to show you both its heft and the six-inch wide bowl.
Detroit Institute of Arts.
This masterpiece is from the Yankton Sioux in South Dakota. Glass beads were used for the eyes of the bird.
Tlingit, soapberry spoon. NMAI.
Chippewa, birch bark spoon, Minnesota. NMAI.
Cheyenne ladle. NMAI.
Seminole dipper, Florida. NMAI.
Back to the “Old” Old World
Ancient Egypt. Met Museum.
And we are back to hands and clam shells. There are several variations on the Egyptian “clam spoon” from a dog handle to a woman swimming handle to these two hand-handles. Note the top spoon has the index finger supporting the bowl from below, while the spoon on the bottom has the thumb above and the rest of the fingers under the bowl.
Met Museum.
Sometimes, the hand is the spoon!
In hieroglyphics the hand translates as the letter ‘D’ or, depending on context, “by the hand of.” For the Toraja people of Sulawesi the word for woodcarving is Pa’ssura which translates to “as writing.” Wood carvers, ancient and modern, are using their hands to write their culture, whether it be spiritual, artistic, or both. Carving a spoon is your writing.
To wrap this up: “Spoonful” as Willie Dixon wrote it and Howlin’ Wolf sang it:
