In this sketch I did of a Masonic “Past-Master’s Jewels” medal, notice the representation of the pythagorean theorem. It is reported that its presence on the owner’s medal indicates that person was what we would likely now call a crew foreman. One of his many responsibilities was to ensure that all the layout tools were true – a clue as to why there’s the homage to Pythagoras. This theorem, codified later by Euclid into his “Proposition 47,” offers a logic proof that the area of the squares erected on the legs of a right triangle would equal the area of the square erected on its hypotenuse. That’s all well and good, but why would that particular equation be of vital interest to the foreman of a joiner’s or mason’s crew? To try to find out, I decided to construct an exact-as-possible, large-scale drawing of the graphic upon which I could explore with a pair of dividers.
The first thing I discovered was that the vertical line CL, which is fixed by the inherent baseline’s intersection points C and D, forms a right angle with the hypotenuse. Even though this result is likely nothing more than symbolic (there are a lot easier ways to generate a right angle with a compass and a straightedge), I believe this right angle – hidden in plain sight – is probably as important to the medal (and its wearer) as the theorem itself. The right angle (“recto” in Greek) is simply the right way to set a vertical post. (Wood’s superb resistance to compression happens when, and only when, the post is set at a right angle to level – an orientation that aligns the grain parallel to the force of gravity). It’s also the right angle to create symmetry to a baseline in common rectilinear structures (think cathedrals).
No reason to stop there, though. Exploring further revealed other attributes of this graphic that offer additional symbolic (and real) representations of the truths inherent in Geometry (note the traditional capital G). Print out the template (you’ll find it offered for free on the shopping page of www.byhandandeye.com) and take a look around on it for yourself. You’ll discover triangles with perfect 2:3 base-to-height proportions (one of the fundamental harmonics in music and architecture of the Medieval era); you’ll find sequences of the infamous triplet (the 3-4-5 triangle) revealed in the hypotenuse and even in the circumference of the circle that started it all; and you may find the module upon which the entire construction revolves. Have fun with this – I sure did!
My first Welsh stick chair. It’s not much like John Brown’s chairs, but it was a start.
In 1996 I was hired as the managing editor at Popular Woodworking, a struggling second-tier woodworking magazine that focused on publishing project plans (17 Must-build Plans Inside! Build an Alien on a Swing!). At the time I was hired, I was a nascent hand-tool woodworker (not by choice, really) with my grandfather’s hand tools plus a Craftsman table saw that seemed determined to eat me.
Before being hired by the magazine, I’d been building tables, chests, benches and bookshelves, but what I really wanted to build was chairs. Chairs are, to me, functional sculpture. Building a chair in 1996, however, seemed impossible. It involved wet wood, compound angles, foreign joinery and weird tools.
Plus, I wasn’t sure what kind of chair I wanted to build. Windsor chairs are beautiful, but they are too feminine and ornate (in general) for my taste. And while I have always loved modern chairs from the Scandinavian countries, the joinery and materials in those chairs seemed even more daunting.
One day I picked up a copy of Good Woodworking magazine in our magazine’s office mail. It had a UK postmark. And opening it was like being struck by lightning. For the most part, Good Woodworking was like the magazine I worked for. It was project-focused (Chopsticks! Build Something for Your Toast!) and was aimed at the not-Fine Woodworking crowd.
But inside that issue was a John Brown column that featured a chair so beautiful and hound-like that I thought it would bound off the page. I wolfed that column down. Then I scurried to our magazine’s “morgue,” where we kept back issues of all our competitors’ magazines. I read everything that had John Brown’s name on it.
That, I decided, was the chair I would build.
It took me six or seven years to build that chair. And it involved a trip to Cobden, Ontario, during an icy March. It was a trip north with a guy (John Hoffman) who would eventually help me found Lost Art Press. But despite the delay and challenges, I built that chair, and it changed the course of my woodworking.
My Monthly Visitor
Good Woodworking was published monthly, which is an insane pace for a woodworking magazine. But I waited impatiently every month for it to arrive. I photocopied the John Brown articles (which I still have) and read them several times over.
My affection for Brown was three-fold. First, it was about the Welsh stick chair. He introduced me to the form that has guided my taste in chairs since 1996. Second, it was about hand tools. I’d been using hand tools almost exclusively since age 11, and it was shocking that someone else I admired did the same thing. I didn’t do it by choice (my parents wouldn’t let me use power tools), but thanks to Brown I decided that I was OK. And third was how he declared “I am an anarchist” in one of his columns. (In fact, his column was labeled “The Anarchist Woodworker” for a period of time.)
I’d been introduced to anarchism my by my cousin Jessamyn West in the early 1990s when she explained how it wasn’t always about the violent overthrow of all government to create chaos. It opened my mind, and during graduate school in 1993 I became a fan of Noam Chomsky and his views on media, hegemony and anarchism.
When Lucy and I moved to the Cincinnati area, I discovered Josiah Warren, the father of American Anarchism and an amazing Cincinnatian. When I walked into the doors of Popular Woodworking magazine in 1996 I was a closeted American Aesthetic Anarchist. Believe me, it’s not something you should list on your resume or even talk about over lunch.
John Brown was the first person to put “woodworking” and “anarchism” together, and it was pure genius. Though I doubt his ideas and mine about anarchism were similar, I am forever in debt to him for making that connection. That is why I dedicated “The Anarchist’s Tool Chest” to him and Roy Underhill (another political subversive).
How Did We Get Here?
When Brown died in 2008, I hoped that someone from Good Woodworking would write the definitive book on Brown and include all of his columns from the magazine. It seemed a natural salute to one of our generation’s most influential woodworkers.
That didn’t happen. Friends of Brown asked me why Lost Art Press didn’t publish that book. Here’s the short answer: I didn’t know Brown personally, and so I left that task to friends who did.
A few years ago, Chris Williams sent me an email out of the blue. Chris worked with Brown for many years (though I’ll leave that story to his pen). He convinced me that Lost Art Press might be the best publisher for this important project.
So please know that I enter this arena reluctantly. While Brown is my woodworking hero, I’ve always thought I was unqualified to publish a book on him. I never met him. I’m an American. And etc.
But I am dedicated to do a good job. Lost Art Press is, at times, about lost causes or lost ideas. Our goal since 2007 has been to re-establish the balance between power tools and hand tools in the modern workshop. Exploring the ideas and influence of Brown will definitely tip those scales.
I am not sure when our book on Brown will be complete. In our world, a book is done when it’s done. But we will finish it, as sure as we finished a nine-year project on Charles Hayward or a seven-year project (at least) on A.J. Roubo.
My tattered folder of John Brown columns that I’ve carried with me since 1996.
I am pleased to announce that Lost Art Press will publish a book on the life and work of the late John Brown, the Welsh chairmaker who is a personal hero.
The book will be written by Chris Williams. Chris, a Welshman, apprenticed at age 16 as a carpenter and joiner and met John Brown in the early 1990s. He worked with Brown for many years making chairs until Brown retired from the craft.
As the plan for the book stands now, it will be divided into three parts. The first part will be a biography of Brown based on interviews with family, friends, fellow woodworkers and Chris’s personal experiences with Brown. The second part (we hope) will be some of Brown’s best columns from Good Woodworking magazine. We have yet to secure rights to republish these columns, but that is in the works. The third part of the book will be Chris demonstrating how Brown built his chairs.
While the fantastic book “Welsh Stick Chairs” also does this, Chris will explain how many details of the chairs had evolved since the publication of that important book.
We have secured the blessing of almost all of Brown’s children for this book, which was important to me personally.
The road ahead for this book is a long one because we want to give it our very best. In the meantime, we’ll share many of the details we encounter in our research here on the blog. If you don’t know much about John Brown’s work and you read this blog, we think you’ll enjoy the months ahead.
Next up: I’ll write a blog entry about how John Brown entered my life (which was through the written word; I never met him). Then Chris will tell the story of how he came to work with Brown.
The book looks spectacular. Crisp and tightly bound. I won’t bore you with the measurements of the fore edge or discuss paper weights. (We hear you, it’s boring.)
This week the warehouse will begin shipping out all the copies that were ordered before the publication date. You should receive an email when that happens, and the book should be in your hands within a week after it ships. Of course, the weather, sunspots and coyote malfeasance could delay that.
The next book in the pipeline is Vol. IV of “The Woodworker” series. This final volume is on workshop stuff (workbenches and tool chests), furniture and its details, plus a few philosophical surprises at the end.
Kara Gebhart Uhl, our managing editor, has finished up her edit of this book. Then Megan Fitzpatrick and I will give it a final once-over before it goes to press. My guess is it will be out in late January.
Also in the works is Mary May’s book on carving the acanthus leaf. That book will go to the designer on Saturday. It might take a while to design the book because the book is quite complex, with hundreds of photos and illustrations.
And finally, “Roubo on Furniture” is dilated at 9cm. Designer Wesley Tanner needs to make some repairs to the layout (don’t ask; it’s painful) and we need to rebuild the index. We are still gunning to get that to the printer before the end of the year and out on the streets by February.
Those are all the books for which I have updates. If you ask: “But what about XXX book?” my answer will be: “Sorry, I don’t know.” All the other books we’ve discussed are being worked on by their authors and are out of our hands.
What I do know is that we have four new book projects to announce in the coming week. Some of them are ridiculously ambitious, plus translations and books that should have been written long ago.
I’m still hoping for a 16-page picture book on happy snails.
This is an excerpt from “By Hand and Eye” by Geo R. Walker and Jim Tolpin.
On the southern shore of Lake Erie lies a narrow strip of cottonwood bramble called Magee Marsh. It’s the last bit of shelter for migrating songbirds before they take flight across the open water. Stiff headwinds can cause a massive pileup with thousands of birds hunkered down, and hundreds of bird watchers converging to witness the spectacle. It’s called a fallout. To a birder, a fallout is an event on par with a solar eclipse.
The first time my wife, Barb, and I stumbled into one, I wasn’t prepared for it. The air bristled with brightly colored warblers as we stepped under the shelter of the tree canopy. I felt a puff of air on my cheek as a blur of yellow feathers darted close to my ear. Veteran birders around me ooh-ed and aah-ed, “There’s a black-throated blue, and just above it, 5′ back at 2 o’clock is a redstart!”
But my eyes weren’t quick enough and I didn’t know how to look, or what I was looking at. Over and over I just missed something wonderful and rare. A 9-year-old boy wearing a T-shirt proclaiming “Birding is not for Sissies” tried in vain to help me, but after a few minutes, politely slipped away. That first morning I wondered to myself if I’d ever get this. I didn’t seem to have the eye for it. In spite of early doubts, gradually my eyes and brain started to mesh. As the day wore on, I began to see clearly those winged jewels I’d only read about in books.
This book is the equivalent of a “fallout” to awaken your designer’s eye. Despite any doubts you might have, you already possess the inherent ability to see with your inner eye. It is, in fact, simply waiting for you to awaken it. You’ll see what once seemed impossible and quickly gain the condence to spread your creative wings. With some practice, the ability to see and unpack a design will become as natural as breathing.
Looking for Clues in all the Right Places We live in a media-saturated world filled with images bombarding us every waking moment. Yet, as Vitruvius observed, we’re still plagued with a common dilemma: A layman looks while a designer sees. My own craft background, molded by modern industrial practice, left me dependent on measured drawings. The ability to visualize seemed beyond my grasp in spite of a lifetime of building things with my hands. Granted, I had strong opinions about furniture, art, cars and guns, and I knew immediately what I liked or considered ugly. But truth be told, I could only detect the glaringly obvious. Even then, I struggled to pin down what caught my eye. I could admire a masterpiece, but could not explain what tipped the scales in its favor. I’d look at a chair and think, “It’s off; there’s something awkward or clumsy about it,” but rarely could I voice with certainty what looked awry. This is a little embarrassing to admit, but even if I started a project with clear pictures and plans, the image I formed in my head never seemed to match the actual parts as they came together. This reinforced the feeling that I couldn’t trust my eye. Not that I couldn’t “make to print”; I couldn’t “see to print.”
Fig. 1.2.2. Is this just a small writing desk or something more? My untrained eye would have said, “Nice work, nice lines,” with little more meaningful comment to add.
Our modern industrial approach doesn’t awaken the eye. It’s just the opposite; the aim is duplication, and that’s achieved by removing the human element. I started my professional life in the trades as a machinist. Blueprints were my world and point of reference; drawings, measurements and tolerances were my comfort zone. Mistakenly I assumed that’s what artisans had always relied on, just with a more primitive set of tools. I had no idea that the artisan age used drawings in a completely different way than anything I’d been taught.In spite of my misconceptions, my own background in the trades gave me subtle clues that something had been broken. My apprenticeship as a machinist began in the 1970s, right at the sunset of the hand-drafting era. Apprentices got a taste of drafting in the engineering shop, a massive open room with row upon row of tilted drafting tables. Just a few years passed and those big drafting boards disappeared as computer-aided design (CAD) technology emerged. Down in the factory, those dog-eared paper drawings were stored away in a vault and replaced by crisp, freshly printed computer drawings with immaculate graphics. A few years later, machines came equipped with a monitor, eliminating the need for a paper drawing. The next step allowed machines to download the drawing directly into the machine controller and eventually, no image of the actual part was required, just data. Oddly enough we still called them “drawings” even though they contained no pictures, just code. Industrial drawings reached a new pinnacle; they could speak directly to machines in their own native tongue. What a success. It took nearly 200 years from the dawn of the Industrial Revolution for technology to finally and entirely remove the human worker from the equation.
Fig. 1.2.3. You can learn to see what lies beneath the surface. This is what we are talking about!
Now don’t get me wrong; this isn’t a rant against technology. The ability to mass-produce and duplicate things with precision is crucial to our modern society. From safe baby food jars to fail-proof landing gear on an airplane, our world today is unimaginable without it. But at its core, measured drawings and the way we use them in our modern industrial approach focuses on duplication. It removes human error but at the expense of creativity by limiting choices and dictating rigid commands. Worst of all, by emphasizing measurements and ignoring proportions, it masks relationships between parts and how they relate to the whole. We look at a historic drawing and conclude the details shown to build it are sketchy. Conversely, an artisan-age craftsman might conclude that our modern drawings contain everything but the kitchen sink, yet they obscure the essence of the design. The creative spark requires a different set of conditions to ignite. It feeds on choices, options and the ability to see. In short, it needs the human element restored so that a dance can emerge between the play of hands, eye and the wood itself.
In this sketch I did of a Masonic “Past-Master’s Jewels” medal, notice the representation of the pythagorean theorem. It is reported that its presence on the owner’s medal indicates that person was what we would likely now call a crew foreman. One of his many responsibilities was to ensure that all the layout tools were true – a clue as to why there’s the homage to Pythagoras. This theorem, codified later by Euclid into his “Proposition 47,” offers a logic proof that the area of the squares erected on the legs of a right triangle would equal the area of the square erected on its hypotenuse. That’s all well and good, but why would that particular equation be of vital interest to the foreman of a joiner’s or mason’s crew? To try to find out, I decided to construct an exact-as-possible, large-scale drawing of the graphic upon which I could explore with a pair of dividers.
