A chairmaker and his cat enjoy the refreshments of an afternoon nap. Photo by Vittorio Pandolfi, Naples, Italy, ca. 1950.
It is Labor Day in America and Labour Day – Fête du Travail in Canada!
Back in 2019 I wrote two pieces for Labor Day describing how the mechanic societies organized to bring about more protections for themselves, their families and their actions to shorten the workday.
Rest for the Weary is about craftsmen’s associations and societies and you can find that post here.
From Six to Six covers the long struggle to reduce the workday from sunrise to sunset to a more humane ten-hour day. You can find that post here.
The Lost Art Pressers will soon be back from Handworks and my short residence is at an end.
Detail of three craftsmen from “Scenes in and Around Kyoto” (Funaki edition), left screen, by Iwasa Matabei (1578-1650), ca. 1615, a designated National Treasure of Japan, Tokyo National Museum.
The craft groups and lumberyards in this second part of the Japanese woodworking festival cover a period of about 400 years. The occupations of craftspeople at work were painted on screens for castles and temples, carved on woodblocks that were bound into books, or sold as individual prints. The audience for the screens and books were the upper classes of society. Often, for the amusement of the readers, books featured “poetry contests” between craftspeople on opposing pages. These are similar to painted scenes of peasants going about their daily lives in seasonal calendars found in European medieval prayer books and manuscripts.
Some of the images are, like the one above, from works designated as national treasures or important cultural properties. In the last few years many have become available in higher resolutions and, especially the highly-detailed painted screens, are just plain fun to study.
Similar to western societies, entire families were engaged in making goods for sale. Multiple generations commonly lived and worked in small two-room homes. The front room faced the street and was used to display and sell goods and as a workspace. The back room and small courtyard was the living space and also where much of the goods were made.
The Toolmakers
Image from an album by an unknown artist dating from early in the 17th century (Edo era). Illustration from “Trades and Crafts of Old Japan – Leaves from a Contemporary Album,” 1961, by Eric A. Kaemmerer.
In his comments for this image Kaemmerer noted the blades and saws hanging at the shop front, small items in a box near the toolmaker and a display at the shop front that might be nails.
From “Nihon sankai meibutsu zue,” 1754 (Osaka) by Hasegawa Mitsunobu, Pulverer Collection, Smithsonian.
In this second image there is bit more detail and a with more detail and a better view of the forge used to heat the metal in a small shop. Below is a toolmaker with a much bigger operation.
In the same book by artist Hasegawa Mitsunobu a crew is crafting heavy tools for use in a quarry. A much larger forge is needed for this operation with a dedicated “forge man.”
The Carpenters
Top-left: 15th century, artist unknown, Harvard Art Museum. Top-right: source and artist unknown, est. 19th century. Bottom: preparatory drawing, school/style of Katsushika Hokusai, est. 1811, British Museum.
Several years ago I sent the top-left image (15th century) to Wilbur Pan. In his comments on his blog he noted there was no Japanese plane, but there was a yari-kanna, or spear plane, and this is possibly an indication of when the planes used today came into use. The image at top-right, with unknown artist and source, is notable for the tattoos on the carpenter in the foreground and nice curly wood shavings. It is just possible the plank acting as his workbench is a sake barrel.
Shokunin zukushi-e (Illustrations of Various Craftsmen), screen painting by Kano Yoshinobu (1552-1640), in Kita-in Temple, Saitama. This reproduction is from my personal collection. The two large six-panel screens at Kita-in are byu-bu, or wind walls, and feature 24 scenes of craftsmen. The screens are designated National Important Cultural Properties.
The busy scene above (except for the guy in the back taking a nap) may be at the carpenter’s workshop with prep work underway or it may the building site. In the background is a drawing of the building plan, something not seen very often in these illustrations. One of the tools near the seated master is the yari-kanna, or spear plane. Other things to note are the tool box in front of the building plan and lunch has arrived.
By Kawahara Keigo, est 1832-1842, National Museum of Ethnology, Leiden.
A very pristine building site of what may be, considering the size of beams, a warehouse. Seated at the corner of the building is the very important sharpener, because as we all know, sharp fixes everything.
The Turners
Top: “Various Classes of Artisans in Color Pictures,” est 1760-1770s, by Minko Tachibana, British Museum. Bottom-left: “Picture Book of Various Occupations,” 1685, by Hishikawa Moronobu, Met Museum. Bottom-right: lathe from Japan’s first illustrated dictionary by Nakamura Tekisai, ca. 1666, Library of Congress.
The illustration at the top probably shows three generations of the turner’s family and emphasizes the family nature of the business. You can also see how stakes are used to stabilize the lather. The image of the lathe and stand is from the Kinmo-zu-i (Enlightening Illustrations), Japan’s first illustrated dictionary. The dictionary is comprised of 14 volumes of woodblock illustrations with written descriptions.
Left: detail from a scroll depicting craftsmen at work, painted by Kuwagata Keisai (1764-1824), Tokyo National Museum. Right: “Imayo shokunin zukushi uta-wase,” by Kitao Masayoshi, 1825, Pulverer Collection, Smithsonian.
Working as the power for the turning lathe was an exhausting job as emphasized by these two images. On left, the worker stops and gasps for breath. On the right, his counterpart strains to keep the lathe turning. Also note the large brace employed to work on a larger container.
The Wheelwrights
Left: “Picture Book of Various Occupations,” 1685, by Hishikawa Moronobu, Met Museum. Top-right: “Sketches of Various Craftsmen,” 1826, by Yashima Gakutei, British Museum. Bottom-right: “Poetry Contest of Various Artisans,” ca. 1744, after Tosa Mitsunobu, Met Museum.
Some things don’t change much over a period of 200 years: the tools are the same, the body is used as a work-holding device and the wheels are made the same way (except on the bottom-right – is that felly being held in place by magic?).
The Coopers
Top-left: From the “Series Thirty-six views of Mount Fuji,” ca. 1830-32, Katsushika Hokusai, Met Museum. Bottom-left: “Sketches of Various Craftsmen,” 1826, Yashima Gakutei, British Museum. Right: From “Trades and Crafts of Old Japan – Leaves from a Contemporary Album,” 1961, by Eric Kaemmerer.
I’ve often wondered if Hokusai made that barrel extra large just to frame Mount Fuji.
Another image from the screens painted by Kano Yoshinobu (1552-1640) in the possession of the Kita-in Temple in Saitama, from my personal collection.
Like the image from Eric Kaemmerer’s book, we get a good sense of how the family was involved in making goods for sale and how the living space was dominated by the workshop.
Back in 2016 (when we were all so much younger) I wrote a piece on Japanese and Estonian cooperage and included information and video of a Japanese company still engaged in making barrels. If you would like to read it you can find it here.
The Cypress Woodcrafters (himono-ya)
To-left: “Picture Book of Various Occupations,” 1685, Hishikawa Mononobu, Met Museum. Bottom-left: “Poetry Contest of Various Artisans,” ca. 1744, after Tosa Mitsunobu, Met Museum. Right: Screen painting by Kano Yoshinobu (1552-1640) at Kita-in Temple, Saitama, from my personal collection.
Working with hinoki, these craftsmen are making round containers, sanbo (a small stand for offerings in Shinto temples), trays, small tables and stands. After splitting thin sheets of wood, the wood is scored and bent into place. A clamp holds the piece together until it can be stitched together. In the large image the master uses a yari-kanna to smooth the wood and the worker on the right is bending (with the aid of his mouth) a sheet into a round shape. The worker in the foreground has a clamp in place as he stitches the wood together. Two sanbo are stacked to the right of the master and in the background supplies are stacked. The screen paintings from the Kita-in Temple are true treasures in depicting how artisans worked.
A display of goods made of hinoki. From “Archiv zur Beschreibung Nippon,” mid to late 19th century, by Philip Franz Siebold. A sanbo is in the middle of the bottom row.
The Shamisen Maker
Left: detail from “Scenes in and Around Kyoto,” ca. 1615, by Iwasa Matabei (1578-1650, Tokyo National Museum. Top-right: “Sketches of Various Craftsmen,” 1826, by Yashima Gakutei, British Museum. Bottom-right: “Ehon imayo shokunin zukushi,” 1800, Kitao Masayoshi, British Museum.
Many Lost Art Press readers make and play musical instruments, even banjos (hello, Mattias). So, I have included the shamisen in this post.
While the craftsmen on the right work on smoothing the neck of a shamisen, the guy on the left trudges home looking like the girls said “no way” or he got kicked out the band. The screens painted by Iwasa Matabei have so many interesting scenes and I couldn’t resist including him.
Photo by Yamamoto, Meiji Era, 1870s, published by J. B. Millet Co.
Although this is one of those staged photos taken in the late 19th and early 20th centuries it does give us a glimpse at how the shamisen is made. The drum is covered by an animal skin (formerly of an animal usually viewed as a pet) which the maker appears to be applying in this photo.
Both woodblock prints by Yashima Gakutei, mid-1820s. Left: Met Museum, Right: Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.
The woman on the left tunes the shamisen; the woman on the right plucks the three strings with a baci, a type of plectrum, cousin to the guitar pick.
The Comb Maker
Top-left: “Poetry Contest of Various Artisans,” ca. 1744, after Tosa Mitsunobu, Met Museum. Middle-left: Saw from Kinmo zui (illustrated dictionary), ca. 1666, by Nakamura Tekisai, Library of Congress. Bottom-left: “ Ehon imayo shokunin zukushi,” 1800, Kitao Masayoshi, British Museum. Right: Actor Ichimura Uzaemon as a comb vendor, ca. 1730, by Okumara Toshinobu.
Fans, umbrellas, sandals, small boxes and combs are just some of the many personal items that were, and continue to be, made of wood. I chose combs because they are a practical item used by women and men and are also an ornamental item.
“Picture Book of Various Occupations,” 1685, by Hishikawa Moronobu, Met Museum.
The kanban, or shop sign, makes it to easy find this comb maker. Comb making requires the skill to make precision cuts, both for blanks and to cut teeth that are evenly spaced. An ornamental comb, or kushi, required a high level of skill and refinement with finishing and decoration completed by a lacquer artist.
From “Nihon sankai meibutsu zue,” 1754 (Osaka) by Hasegawa Mitsunobu, Pulverer Collection, Smithsonian.
There are many painters in the books illustrating craftspeople at work, but I could not find one that was definitely a lacquer artist. However, we do have an illustration of Japanese sumac trees, urushinoki, being tapped for sap to make lacquer, or urushi.
Two combs with lacquer work by Hara Yoyusai (1772?-1845). Top: two turtles (kame) swimming in a stream, design and drafting by Sakai Hoitsu, Tokyo National Museum. Bottom: fireflies in a grassy moor, The Walters Art Museum, Baltimore.
Hara Yoyusai used the maki-e technique of sprinkling gold onto a lacquered surface before it hardened. This raises the design elements and provides texture. The comb on the bottom is gold and the fireflies are black. Note how the painted design extends over the teeth of the comb. The comb at the top has been repaired, a common practice, because there is still beauty in broken things.
The Boatwrights
By Kawahara Keigo, 1832-1842, National Museum of Ethnology, Leiden.
Only one image of this craft and it calls for alteration: boatwrights building a big boat.
Bringing Lumber to Market and the Lumberyards
From “Nihon sankai meibutsu zue,” 1754 (Osaka) by Hasegawa Mitsunobu, Pulverer Collection, Smithsonian.
Trees are cut, trimmed and start the float down river to lumber merchants and their yards. These are scenes not usually found in the books featuring town-based craftsmen.
The golden clouds parted to see a lumber merchant from “Scenes in and Around Kyoto” (Funaki edition), left screen, by Iwasa Matabei (1578-1650), ca. 1615, a designated National Treasure of Japan, Tokyo National Museum.
The three craftsmen at the very top of this post need only walk a short distance down their street and into the next panel of their screen to find a lumber merchant. The merchant probably received his supply via boat on the nearby river.
The 1657 Great Fire of Meireki was a conflagration that destroyed over 60% of Edo (Tokyo)and caused the deaths of over 100,000. After the fire lumbar yards were moved east of the Sumida river and further from the city. Thanks to the well-known 19th-century woodblock artists, Hokusai and Hiroshige we have two views of Tokyo’s Fukagawa-kiba lumberyard.
“Tatekawa in Honjo (Honjo Tatekawa), from the series Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji (Fugaku sanjurokkei),” ca. 1830–32, by Katsushika Hokusai. The stacks of lumber in the lower right are labeled as destined for the storehouse of the publisher of the woodblock print and stock for the new edition of Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji.
The lumberyard was its own city with a maze of canals, bridges and warehouses.
“Lumberyards at Fukagawa-kiba, No. 106 in a series One Hundred Views of Famous Places in Edo,” 1856, Utagawa Hiroshige, Fine Arts Museum of San Francisco.
The lumberyards grew as more land was reclaimed.
A postcard dated 1910 of Fukagawa kiba, via The Tokyo Files.
In the early 1970s the lumberyards were moved further away to reclaimed land. The old lumber yard is now Kiba Park, the newer yards are Shin-kiba.
To bring the Japanese Woodworking Matsuri to an end I will leave you with a link to high-resolution images of the two screens of “Scenes in and Around Kyoto” (Funaki edition) painted around 1615 by Iwasa Matabei (Collection of Tokyo National Museum, National Treasure of Japan).
You can find the link here. Each screen is made of six panels. When you open the link click on the highest resolution. Scroll to the bottom of the page and you will see two links, one for each screen.
Your challenge is to find this pumpkin-panted Portuguese visitor:
Saw, sawset, handplanes, square, sumitsubo and sumisashi by Kawahara Keigo, Museum Volkenkunde, Leiden, Netherlands.
We start our matsuri, or festival, with work commissioned by Philip Franz von Siebold, German physician and botantist. In 1823, under the auspices of the Dutch East Indies Company he was posted to Dejima, an artificial island and trading post off the coast of Nagasaki. For over 200 years, first for the Portuguese and later for the Dutch, Dejima was the conduit for trade with Japan during the isolationist Edo period (1600-1869).
Siebold collected a vast number of plants that were later taken to Leiden. He taught western medical practices and he, along with others, documented Japanese flora, fauna, customs and culture. Siebold quickly began the multi-volume “Archiv zur Beschreibung Nippons” (Archive for Describing Japan). The archive included this illustration of tools:
Siebold was allowed to hire artist Kawahara Keiga (1786-1860?) to further their documentation efforts. Kawahara was taught western painting techniques by Carl Hubert de Villeneuve. He painted harbor scenes, plants, animals and all manner of things. His artwork included the hand tools used by Japanese craftsmen.
Kawahara painted on paper, wood and silk. An archive of his work is held by the Netherlands National Museum of Ethnology (Museum Volkenkunde Leiden). Below is a gallery of Japanese hand tools painted on silk by Kawahara. At the end of the gallery are three illustrations by other artists, each of which has been used in previous blog posts (now they are all together!). After the gallery is a link to use if you would like to see several more paintings of tools, boats, sea life and more.
Kanban (shop sign) for a blade and toolmaker, late 19th century, Mingei International Museum, San Diego.
Cooper’s Tools, before 1872, National Archive of Estonia. Measurements are in fuß (fuss or foot).
The link will take you to a Search Page. If it comes up in Dutch you can select your alternate language at the top right of the page. In the Search Box enter Kawahara Keigo and press Search. Use the Green Arrows on the right to advance to Page 11. Kawahara’s work is found on Pages 11 to 51.
Kawahara’s cats! After all, this is the Lost Art Press and Cats blog.
Years ago I attended the Southern Highlands Craft Show in Asheville, North Carolina, and bought a goose carved by an older woman. She had two geese, but I could only afford one. The goose was in the charging position: head down and neck extended. It was the start of my appreciation for carved animals. Unfortunately, a couple years later the beak was chewed up by a long-haired black cat with a bum leg and an attitude (side note: this cat also enjoyed being vacuumed using the upholstery attachment). The damaged goose was packed away to limit further damage, and the cat with the bum leg moved with me seven times in three states, outlived two younger cats and died when she was 18. I did not acquire another wooden bird until well after she was gone.
Now, I have a small collection of wooden birds and will share some of them with you. I have also included some historical examples of practical items shaped like birds. We’ll start with a few from southeast Pennsylvania, a well-known region of talented folk artists.
A crow or raven. Carved by Dan Strawser in 1974, southeastern Pennsylvania. 9-1/2 inches long, 5-1/2 inches high.
Dan Strawser has been carving since the 1970s, and his wife, Donna,paints the birds. I’ve seen other birds by Strawser with wings carved in a similar manner. It looks as though the bird is seconds away from lifting off. Strawser did not sand the surface, allowing the surface carving to stand out and give the bird dimension. The bird and rounded base are painted a uniform black with only a small dot of white on each eye. Sometimes there is an urge to paint a base a contrasting color or pattern. For this bird I think a different color would detract from the overall image.
“Three little birds pitch by my door step…” Three small birds by Alvin G. Martin, 1989, Mennonite carver, Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. 8 inches long, 5-1/4 inches high.
These may be house sparrows or song sparrows or some other birds entirely. Either way, I was attracted to the composition and the painting. Each branch with bird is one piece of wood with saw marks still visible. The body positions of the birds capture the quick movements of their real-life counterparts. Martin’s patterning and use of color on the birds and branches is nicely done, and the solid dark green base complements and anchors the composition.
One of the challenges in carving birds is what to do with the legs and feet. Alvin Martin painted the birds in a natural position with legs bent under the body and only the painted feet shown perching on the branches.
A bluebird by Ben Hoover, active in the 1970s and 1980s, Mennonite, Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.
This little bird hangs from a ceiling fan light pull in a room where my mother spends much of her time. Bluebirds are her favorite. As you can see, the paint work is wonderful. Bluebirds are frequent visitors to our yard. One spring I watched a male bluebird trying to show two perplexed youngsters how to take a bath.
As much as I value the work of the carvers of southeastern Pennsylvania, both their observations of the natural world and their creative efforts to craft birds and other animals, I also appreciate a different approach.
A swan made of two pieces of black walnut by Chicago-based artist and designer Peter Dunham. Approximately 6 inches wide, 5 inches high.
Peter Dunham has designed a variety of animals, with most comprised of two to four pieces. The appeal to me is stripping the figure of an animal to its defining elements, in this case, the long curving neck and the large and wide-flung wings.
Putting Birds to Work
Domesticated birds have often inspired craftspeople to make bird-shaped boxes for use in the home. There are many examples of this idea in the “Peasant Art” series of books by Charles Holmes.
An egg box in the shape of a goose from the Tyrol or Vorarlberg area of Austria from “Peasant Art in Austria and Hungary” by Charles Holme, et. al., published in 1911. Dimensions not given.
The top of the box (one piece or two?) flips open and it looks like there may be a catch mechanism at the base of the tail. A kitchen box to hold eggs is a utilitarian item. It can be a plain square box and does not need decoration. However, when the maker matches the design of the box to its use it becomes an object of joy. The curve of the bird’s neck, the detail given the eyes and beak and the meticulous chip carving add nothing to the quality of eggs stored within. But, for the woman or child that transfers the eggs from an old straw basket to this box it provides a moment of pleasure in the long day of work on a farm.
A duck-shaped box, New Kingdom (16th to 11th century BC), Egypt, British Museum. 6 inches long, 3-3/4 inches high. The head is attached, and the beak is broken.
The idea of a bird-shaped box has a long history and can be found in many cultures. This box was used for cosmetics. The wings, attached with pins near the neck, form the lid and are decorated with crosshatching. The wings, likely cut from one piece of wood, swing out to open the box.
Another example from ancient Egypt from the same time period and with similar measurements. British Museum.
Another New Kingdom cosmetics box with a missing lid allows a better view of the bowl-shaped body of the bird. As can be seen in the color photo and the line drawings, this duck box has a greater level of carved detail. Although they are not necessary for the function of the box, we find the duck’s feet! With the wings closed and sitting in one’s hand this would be a delightful little duck that just so happens to be a box.
Back, or forward, to the 20th century and one more practical item in the shape of a bird.
From “Peasant Art in Russia” by Charles Holme, et. al, published in 1912.
This egg dish, or bowl, is quite dashing with handles formed by a beak and a tail of almost equal size. The bird’s “crew cut” comb just adds to charm of this piece.
Back to My Birds
A small bird bowl by David Fisher.
This bird, by a carver in the exotic western portion of Pennsylvania, just sings. Dave has captured the dynamic moment before a bird launches itself into the air and takes off like a shot.
A partridge, maker unknown. 4-1/2 inches long, 3-1/2 inches high.
I don’t know who made this little bird or where it was made. Except for a portion of the head and neck it is covered in moon-shaped feathers. The head, back and wings are stained, adding dimension and life to the carving.
The wings are not perfectly centered on the body, but it takes nothing away from the piece. I find myself reaching for this bird almost every day. It is a little treasure.
One bird I do not attempt to pick up very often is the largest bird in my small collection, Rémy the Rooster.
Rémy the Rooster in front of one of my bookcases. Not his usual spot, but the only place to get a good photo of his magnificent entirety. 32 inches high, weighs about 10 lbs.
I don’t normally give names to inanimate objects, just the special ones. Rémy was purchased from a seller in northeast Alabama close to where that corner of Alabama meets Tennessee and Georgia. It is possible he was made in the southern Appalachians. He was dated as being made in the 1940s, but could be a bit earlier or later. Whoever made this rooster had a good sense of humor.
I found a similar rooster, very likely by the same maker, on a high-end sale site that dated it as 19th century. It sold for more than five times what I paid for my bird and its shipping cost. To me, the 19th century date is doubtful. The entire bird was painted a mottled reddish color that obscured carved details on the head. I suspect the paint job was an effort to artificially age and date the piece.
My rooster is painted black and, based on several nicks and dings, there is no undercoat of a different color. The comb and wattle are dark red.
I find the head-on view a bit disturbing.
Carved details on his head include curlicues on the comb and a simple round eye rimmed with white. The carved line of the beak is defined with dark red paint. There is a chip off the end of the beak and on one wattle (or fleshy caruncle) and some dings here and there. Whatever his age, he is in good condition.
Rémy is made of one piece of wood and is staked into a base that is 4 inches high. A feather edge is carved above his legs, and the legs have spurs. His feet are carved into the base, a common feature for many wooden roosters.
One of the problems the bird carver must solve, besides how to present the legs and feet, is the weight of the tail. Often this is solved by carving the bird and base as one piece, or by placing the bird on a base as was done in the crow/raven in the top photo. The showy tail feathers of a rooster require a different solution as the weight and extension of the tail can easily tip over even small carvings. Rooster crafters have solved this problem by chopping out the underside of the tail feathers, thereby reducing the mass of the tail.
Now, I would never knowingly photograph the hind quarters of anyone, even to show you the rooster-tail solution. On the other hand, I have no qualms using a photograph taken by someone else (of the previously mentioned expensive rooster) as a means of illustrating the solution.
The derrière of the “other” rooster. It also shows more of the surface carving of the tail feathers.
Although we may not be able to perfectly identify the species of each wooden bird, or have exact information on when and who made them, what we do have is handmade work that brings us pleasure. By extension, these wooden examples can help guide us to have a greater appreciation for the birds outside our windows.
The beginning. In the House of the Vetti, this dining room fresco is perhaps the earliest depiction of a workbench in the West. (Photo by Narayan Nayar)
Vesuvius erupted on this day in 79 C.E. To commemorate the event, here’s the introduction to Christopher Schwarz’s book on ancient workbenches: “Ingenious Mechanicks.” Why? The earliest workbench depiction that we yet know of is in a fresco in the House of the Vetti in Pompeii, which was buried in the volcano’s explosion and remained buried until the late 19th century.
The journey to the summit of Mount Vesuvius has all the romance of visiting an unlicensed reptile farm. It begins in Ercolano, Italy, a touristy village in the shadow of the volcano and home to Herculaneum, one of the towns buried by Vesuvius’s eruption in 79 C.E.
As Narayan Nayar (the photographer for the journey) and I stepped off the train from Naples we were assaulted by young, attractive Italians. Their job: Bait tourists to nearby restaurants. We glanced around and saw only one escape route from the train station’s cul-de sac. So, we plowed through the crowd of eager human fishing lures.
We emerged from the other side a bit relieved. Then we realized we’d scurried past the bus company that was supposed to drive us up the volcano. We turned around and dove back into the swarm of too-perky people in order to catch our bus.
The twisty-turny bus ride ended 660 feet below the volcano’s summit, and we then climbed a steep trail to the volcano’s rim. The top resembles a gravel pit where one of Frank Herbert’s worms might emerge. There’s no deep hole for tossing human sacrifices – throw a virgin into Vesuvius and she’s only going to get skinned knees and a sunburn. I looked around the volcano and promptly excused the early settlers of the area for building their homes at the base of Vesuvius. The only evidence you’re on a volcano (besides the little gift shops) is the occasional tiny plume of gas and the odd rocks below your feet.
I picked up a few rocks. For rocks, they were young – likely the result of the 1944 eruption, which destroyed several villages. I looked out from our 4,200-foot perch at the buildings in every direction below, which are built on top of villages that were covered in ash from earlier eruptions. It’s a grim scene if you think about it too much – 600,000 people now live in the so-called “red zone” for a future eruption.
And yet, as I fondled the rocks in my hand I felt only gratitude for this deadly, fire-breathing mountain.
Ruined. Even with thousands of tourists around you, Pompeii is so sprawling that it seems deserted. Photo by NN
The Earliest Workbenches The recorded history of woodworking begins with the Egyptians. But the recorded history of workbenches begins (for now) with Vesuvius. Its massive eruption in 79 C.E. buried Pompeii, Herculaneum and other sites, preserving frescoes, buildings, pottery, human remains and even wooden furniture.
At Pompeii, the ash blanketed a fresco showing a low, four-legged workbench being used for mortising by a man in Greek attire. At nearby Herculaneum, the eruption preserved a fresco showing “erotes” – what we might call “buck nekkid cupids” – sawing a board at an eight-legged low workbench. It features a holdfast and other holdfast holes. This fresco has since been destroyed, but we have engravings that were made soon after its discovery (more on both the frescoes’ stories is ahead).
These two images are the earliest representations of workbenches of which I’m aware. And they launched my interest in exploring knee-high workbenches and how to use them to build furniture, boats, storage containers and wagon wheels.
The conventional wisdom is that these low benches were used in former times for simple work and were replaced by superior modern benches, which are thigh-high or taller. But the more I studied low benches, the more I found that they never disappeared. They are still in use. Additionally, these low benches can be used for complex work, including steam bending compound shapes and lutherie.
The low bench is more than a thick plank of wood with legs. It’s also a collection of simple jigs and appliances that allow you to do remarkable work while sitting comfortably on an easy-to-build platform. For centuries, these simple jigs remained hidden in plain sight in paintings and drawings in museums. And their appliances have been proven to work, both at my low benches and by the modern craftsmen who still use them.
But why bother with this musty old crap? Modern woodworkers are blessed with a wide array of vises, dogs, clamps and other devices that can immobilize a piece of wood so you can work on its faces, edges and ends.
Well, at times I think we tend to make our workholding far more complex than it has to be. And that can affect your approach to the things you build. While your brain might see the logic of a screw-driven tail vise with a series of movable metal dogs, the ingenious early craftsman might find this same vise slow, fragile, fussy to maintain and cumbersome in use.
I empathize with the early woodworker. My brain is wired to look for a simpler solution to a problem instead of creating complexity.
Example: Earlier this year, I spent a couple hours in the dentist’s chair and was force-fed several episodes of a home-improvement show focused on carving out storage from oddball places in a home. Some of the examples I remember over the whirring of the dental Dremel include:
Hinge your steps to create trap doors on the landings of your stairs to make small bins in the wasted space between your stringers.
Find stud walls that are chases for utilities and turn them into built-in chests of drawers.
In attic spaces, create sliding racks on the interior of a high-pitched roof. You slide giant plastic bins into the racks – it’s a bit like a top-hanging drawer.
Through the entire program I wanted to puke (that was mostly because I have a sensitive gag reflex). But it was also because these “storage solution” programs neglect to mention the easiest way to control clutter: Get rid of your excess crap.
No one should have so much stuff that they have to slave excessively to make a place to stow it. In the same way, no workbench needs vises on all four corners (I’ve built these for students and customers) to build fine furniture. You just don’t.
With this book, I hope to expose you to early and simple ways of holding your work. While many of these devices were used on low workbenches, most of them work on high workbenches as well. I use both sorts of benches – high and low – in my work for building all manner of things, from stud walls to Welsh stick chairs, dovetailed chests to nailed-together coffins.
The workholding on these benches is truly ingenious and effective. Things change when you sit down to work. And I think you’ll be surprised what you can do on your bum: planing, chiseling, shaving and even dovetailing.
Teach a Roman to shave. It is a short intellectual leap from the low workbench to other “sit and work” appliances, such as the shavehorse.
The low bench form might not be for everyone. But it might be right for you and you might not know it. Woodworkers with limited mobility use low benches because they can sit and work. Apartment woodworkers use low benches because they take up little space and do double-duty as seating or a coffee table. Curious woodworkers use them because – dammit – they are an interesting form to build and use. Many chairmakers already use a low bench (but they call it a shavehorse), as do many other specialty trades, including coopers and basketmakers. Oh, and a low bench is the best sawbench ever made – promise.
One more plug for these early benches: Using their lessons, you can make almost any surface into a worksurface. A couple drywall screws can turn a picnic table into an English-style workbench. A missing brick in a wall (and a pine wedge) can become a face vise. A shavehorse can be cobbled together with a rock and a scrap of wood strapped to your gut.
Graven image. This copperplate engraving was made by Italian artists shortly after the Herculaneum fresco was discovered. Sadly, the original has deteriorated.
Even if you never build a low workbench and reject its appliances as “not whiz-bang-y” enough for your engineering mindset, you might enjoy the journey of discovery required to write this book. It involved trips to exotic Italy, Germany and Indianapolis. (And understanding the low bench might connect your work to Chinese benches.) In the process, we rescued oak slabs from a pallet factory. We flushed $1,000 down a metaphorical toilet to learn about the construction of the first modern workbench in 1505. We ate a ton of Neapolitan pizza.
Workbenches are at the heart of everything we do. So, let’s take a brief look at the history of Western workbenches and consider why it’s even worth looking at ancient benches.
