woodwork magazine

SPRING 2009

WOODWORKA M A G A Z I N E F O R A L L W O O D W O R K E R SWOODWORK A M A G A Z I N E F O R A L L W O O D W O R K E R S

Building Strong, Stylish Tables in a DayBuilding Strong, Stylish Tables in a Day

The Idyllic Career of Grant Vaughan

Toshio Odate's Shoes

Studio Furniture at the Smithsonian

Wooden Planes forDadoes and Rabbets

Fineply: A Curious Shop-Made Plywood

A 17th-Century Box

The Long Journey ofDavid Upfill-Brown

Handmade Handscrews

School for Boatbuilders

The Idyllic Career of Grant Vaughan

Toshio Odate's Shoes

Studio Furniture at the Smithsonian

Wooden Planes forDadoes and Rabbets

Fineply: A Curious Shop-Made Plywood

A 17th-Century Box

The Long Journey ofDavid Upfill-Brown

Handmade Handscrews

School for Boatbuilders

$5.99 US

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CONTENTS

SPRING 2009 NUMBER 115

A M A G A Z I N E F O R A L L W O O D W O R K E R SWOODWORK

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6 The Idyllic Woodworking Life of Grant VaughanBY TERRY MARTIN

12 6/8 TablesBY JOHN SHERIDAN

20 The Pair of ShoesBY TOSHIO ODATE

23 GallerySAN DIEGO DESIGN IN WOOD EXHIBITION, 500 TABLES BY LARK BOOKS

28 Wooden Grooving and Rabbeting PlanesBY KERRY PIERCE

34 FineplyBY JERRY SPADY

40 Recreating a 17th-Century Carved BoxBY PETER FOLLANSBEE

48 Studio Furniture at the RenwickBY OSCAR FITZGERALD

58 Seeing the World with David Upfill-BrownBY PATRICK DOWNES

66 Shopmade HandscrewsBY STEVEN BUNN

72 A High School for BoatbuildersBY DREW LANGSNER

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ON THE COVER

Grant Vaughan sculpting on his workshopporch in New South Wales, Australia.

4 COMMENTARY5 CONTRIBUTORS

78 BACK ISSUES80 CLASSIFIED ADS81 ADVERTISERS INDEX82 LOOKING BACK

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COMMENTARY

Hello, and welcome to a new era inthe life of Woodwork magazine. I'm

Tom Caspar, the current Editor of Wood-work. I'd bet many folks thought that theWoodwork they came to know and lovewould end with its sale by Ross Publica-tions in the summer of 2008. But, to par-aphrase Mark Twain, one of my favoriteauthors, the rumours of Woodwork'sdemise have been greatly exaggerated. Iintend to keep Woodwork the same as ithas been: a magazine that reflects theinquiring spirit of all woodworkers. Ihope that this issue, my first, will seemvery familiar.

I go back a long way with Woodwork.While trying to eke out a living as a cus-tom furnituremaker, I started writing forWoodwork in 1996, under the editorshipof John McDonald. I continued to con-tribute to Woodwork when John Lavinetook the helm in 1998. The next year, I left

my cabinet shop and joined the staff ofAmerican Woodworker magazine. I'mnow the Editor of both American Wood-worker and Woodwork magazines.

During the last ten years, John Lavinelabored long and hard to create a uniqueidentity for Woodwork. He did an amaz-ing job. I need your help to continue thismission because Woodwork's successdepends in large part on the quality of arti-cles that you submit. If you would like tocontribute, or to comment on the mix ofstories in this issue, please e-mail me at theaddress below. In addition, you can helpme chart a course for Woodwork byanswering two vital questions: What wouldyou like to see more of in the magazine?What would you like to see less of inWoodwork?

Here's to a long and fruitful dialogue,Tom Caspar, [email protected]

WOODWORKA M A G A Z I N E F O R A L L W O O D W O R K E R S

SPRING 2009www.americanwoodworker.com/woodwork

EDITORIAL

Editorial Director Randy JohnsonEditor Tom Caspar

Associate Editor Tim Johnson Office Administrator Shelly Jacobsen

ART & DESIGN

Creative Director Vern JohnsonDirector of Photography Jason Zentner

Category President/Publisher Carol LasseterAdvertising Director Brian Ziff

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Circulation Steve Pippin Adrienne RomaSusan SidlerDominic M. Taormina

Director E-Media Steve Singer

ADVERTISING SALES

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Woodwork, ISSN 1045-3040, USPS 004-058 is published quarterly byWoodworking Media, LLC, 90 Sherman St., Cambridge, MA 02140. Peri-odicals postage paid at Boston, MA and additional mailingoffices.Postmaster:Send change of address notice to Woodwork®, P.O.Box 420235, Palm Coast, FL 32142-0235. Subscription rates: U.S. one-year,$19.97. Single-copy, $5.99. Canada one-year, $24.97. Single-copy $6.99(U.S. Funds); GST #R122988611. Foreign surface one-year, $25.00(U.S.Funds). U.S.newsstand distribution by Curtis Circulation Com-pany,LLC,New Milford,NJ 07646.Canada Post Publications Mail Agree-ment Number 41525524. Canada Postmaster: Send address changes to:Woodwork, PO Box 875, STN A, Windsor, ON N9A 6P2. Send returns andaddress changes to Woodwork®, P.O. Box 420235, Palm Coast, FL 32142-0235. Printed in USA. © 2009 Woodworking Media, LLC. All rightsreserved.

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11502_Comm/mast/contr_F:Woodwork Front Matter 1/15/09 9:34 AM

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CONTRIBUTORS

TERRY MARTIN (p. 6) has

been a woodturner since the

mid-1980s and has been

writing on turning and associ-

ated crafts since 1991. In

1995 he published “Wood

Dreaming,” the only book about Australian turners. In

2008 he co-authored “New Masters of Woodturning”

with Kevin Wallace. Terry travels widely as a speaker,

curator and commentator on wood art.

JOHN SHERIDAN (p.12) is

a San Francisco furniture-

maker who started the

Grew-Sheridan Studio with

his late wife, Carolyn Grew-

Sheridan, in 1974. John occa-

sionally teaches summer seminars, most recently “Chair-

making,” at the Penland School in North Carolina. His

work has been included in “500 Chairs” and “500

Tables.” He belongs to Veterans for Peace.

TOSHIO ODATE (p. 20)

apprenticed as a woodworker

in his native Japan in the mid-

1940s. He moved to New

York in 1958 and became a

sculptor and teacher. Toshio

has been a leader in introducing the Japanese woodwork-

ing tradition to the West. He has written numerous arti-

cles and two books: “Japanese Woodworking Tools: Their

Tradition, Spirit and Use” and “Making Shoji. “

KERRY PIERCE (p. 28) has

been building and writing

about period furniture for

almost 40 years. He has

written over 150 magazine

articles on his three wood-

working passions: the Shaker tradition, chairmaking and

hand planes. Six of his eighteen books are studies of

Shaker work, including “Pleasant Hill Shaker Furniture”

and “Making Shaker Woodenware.”

JERRY SPADY (p. 34) comes

to woodworking from a

background of research in

biochemistry and microbiol-

ogy. He holds undergraduate

degrees in zoology, chemistry,

and mathematics, and a doctorate in biomedical sci-

ences. Jerry is a lifelong woodworker and currently pur-

sues the craft fulltime. He is a past president of the East

Tennessee Woodworker’s Guild.

PETER FOLLANSBEE

(p. 40) has practiced green

woodworking since studying

with John Alexander in

1978. For the past 15 years

he has been the joiner at

Plimoth Plantation in Plymouth, Massachusetts. Peter

will teach a week-long class in making a carved oak

box August 17-21, 2009 at the Country Workshops

in Marshall, North Carolina.

OSCAR FITZGERALD

(p. 48) earned his Ph.D. in

history from Georgetown

University. He retired from

the Naval Historical Center

to pursue his first love: the

history of furniture and decorative arts. Oscar currently

teaches at Marymount University and the Smithsonian

Institution /Corcoran School Master’s Program. He is

working on a book about contemporary box makers.

PATRICK DOWNES (p. 58)

is currently a Fellow at the

Center for Furniture Crafts-

manship in Rockport, Maine.

A late arrival to furniture-

making, he enjoys exploring

the use of text and texture in his pieces. As a writer and

editor, Patrick’s work has appeared in magazines such as

STORY and Experience Life.

DAVID UPFILL-BROWN

(p. 65) began his career as a

sculptor in Africa. He studied

furnituremaking at the Parn-

ham School in England, ran a

workshop near Canberra,

Australia, taught at the Australian National University, and

was the first academic director of the Australian School

of Fine Furniture. David is now lead instructor at the

Center for Furniture Craftsmanship, Rockport, Maine.

STEVEN BUNN (p. 66)

owns and operates a cabinet

shop in Bowdoinham, Maine,

where he specializes in craft-

ing Windsor chairs. Steve has

written articles for Fine

Woodworking and Home Furniture magazines and has

been listed in Early American Life magazine’s Directory

of Traditional Craftsman. Visit Steve online at

www.stevenbunn.com.

DREW LANGSNER (p. 72)

is the author of numerous

magazine articles and several

woodworking books, includ-

ing “The Chairmaker’s Work-

shop.” In 1978, Drew and

Louise Langsner started Country Workshops, a wood-

working school that focuses on traditional woodwork-

ing with hand tools. Visit www.countryworkshops.org or

www.DrewLangsner.com to learn more.

GLENN GORDON (back

cover) is a writer, sculptor, and

photographer. His articles on

furniture, sculpture, photogra-

phy, architecture and design

have appeared in such publi-

cations as American Craft, Woodwork, Architecture Min-

nesota, and Black & White. His article, “Functional Sculp-

ture,” on a recent show of furniture from the Upper Mid-

west, appeared in Woodwork #112, August 2008.

11502_Comm/mast/contr_F:Woodwork Front Matter 1/15/09 9:34 AM

Despite the notion that the wood-working life is very romantic, fullof sweet-smelling plane shavings

in a peaceful workshop, for many the real-ity is dusty, noisy and sometimes tediouswork. Yet many of us became woodwork-ers in pursuit of an idealized lifestyle. WhenI recently visited Grant Vaughan, I wasimpressed to see just how close he has cometo the kind of life many dream of.

To reach Grant’s home I travelled alongback roads through peaceful green valleys inthe northern border country of New SouthWales, Australia. The roads became narrowerand steeper as I reached Grant’s valley. Justbefore the turning to Grant’s house I discov-ered Rock Valley Post Office, the smallest inthe Southern Hemisphere (1). I stopped totalk to the volunteer Postmaster, Ian, whotold me the valley is populated by a mix oftraditional farmers and relative newcomerswho came in pursuit of an alternativelifestyle. Ian used to be a fireman in Sydney;now he grows native limes in the next valleyover. I mentioned Grant’s name and Ianlooked at me with increased interest.“Grant’s famous around here,” he told me.

I first became aware of Grant’s work inthe late 80s when the Sydney Opera Househosted a landmark exhibition of work bymembers of the New South Wales Wood-workers Guild. It was the first time wood-work had been shown in that prestigiousvenue, and it raised the public profile ofmany of the exhibitors. Grant showed abowl of carved Red Cedar (4). The piecewas completely different from the turnedwooden bowls that were flooding the Aus-tralian market at the time, and I rememberthinking that I’d like to meet the artist.Twenty years later I finally did.

Grant’s house is hidden in subtropicalrainforest at the end of a long, rough drive-way that meanders across green fields. Iemerged into a large clearing between hisworkshop and the house and Grant cameout onto the wide veranda of his workshop(2) to greet me. We settled in the shade witha cold drink. The valley echoed with bird-song and as the shadows lengthened, walla-bies came down to eat the grass within a fewyards of us (3). Grant’s life is in many waysa typically Australian story: “I was born inthe country in 1954. We lived in different

towns and I had a lot of experiences that pre-pared me for life here. When I finished highschool I did a year of engineering at univer-sity, but I soon decided I didn’t like that. Iswitched to architecture and nearly finishedtwo years, but like a lot of people at thattime, I dropped out of school. In 1973 a bigAquarius Festival was held not far from hereand I came up for it. Eventually I joined oth-ers who were dropping out and moving hereto start a new life on the land.”

Soon Grant bought 85 acres of that land.“It was pretty bare with only a few of theoriginal forest trees left,” he said. “The landwas pretty degraded. We were talking about

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GRANTVAUGHAN

THE IDYLLIC WOODWORKING LIFE OF

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global warming and things like that thirtyyears ago! The problem was that nobodywas listening, so we got tired of talkingabout it. I thought it would be good to letat least this bit of land go back to forest. Theneighbors thought I was nuts. Even when Iplanted a few trees they thought I was crazyas they’d spent their lives cutting downtrees. Funny, but now it’s probably worthmore as forested land than when it was cat-tle property.”

A lot of the new arrivals didn’t knowanything about living on the land, butGrant, having had some experience in thecountry, knew more than most. “I knew

we couldn’t all grow lentils and survive onthat. I always wanted to do something cre-ative with my hands. Wood was the onlyaccessible material, so I started experi-menting. I bought a few tools and triedmaking coffee tables and cabinets. I didn’trealize that you have to allow for theexpansion and contraction of the wood,so I glued the tops of my coffee tables tothe frame with epoxy and of course theypulled themselves apart!” Gradually hemastered the tools, often by trial and error.“It was very frustrating, but I got helpfrom a local craftsman who is a whiz withmachinery. I picked it up really fast. It was

simple: I asked, he showed me, and thatwas it.”

By the early 80s Grant had started tohave success selling his furniture locally,making kitchens, dining tables and chairs.He began taking pieces to big craft showsin Sydney and soon had more orders thanhe could cope with. Grant started incorpo-rating carving into his furniture to make itmore interesting, and around this time hefound a new direction. “I was sitting on thebeach one day and thinking about carvingsomething, so I took some clay from aheadland and tried making a bowl. Iremember a friend saying, ‘Grant, I like

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your furniture, but that looks terrible!’ I’mpleased to say that the Opera House bowlthat got so much publicity was the same asthat first clay bowl. I think I sold it foraround $500, which doesn’t seem muchnow, but it was quite a lot in those days.Everybody loved it, particularly because itwas so different from the huge number ofturned bowls that were being made at thattime. I carved it all the old-fashioned waywith gouges and mallet. I thought it tooktoo much time and I would never be ableto make any money that way. I had a youngchild and I was the only earner in the fam-ily. So, to be practical, I started doing carvedmirrors (5). I took deposits for fourteenmirrors at one show alone. In the end I gotsick of them.”

In 1988, the Australian government wascommissioning Australian artists to makefurniture using indigenous woods for thenew Federal Parliament House in Can-berra. Grant’s solid reputation led to a com-mission for two document cases for theentrance to the Senate offices (6 and 7).

They had to be sealed to control the inte-rior environment for archival material. Itwas heady success, but not everybodyappreciated the importance of such work,as Grant explains: “The day I delivered thetables, I was standing back looking at themwith one of the architects. He was just say-ing how great they looked when a janitorcame by with a huge ring of keys. Withouteven looking up from his clipboard, hethrew the keys onto one of the tables andscratched the top! You’ve got to get used towhat will happen to furniture in publicplaces.”

Grant continued to get prestigious com-missions from the government. On behalfof the Department of Foreign Affairs he dida wall mural 6 meters long and 2 metershigh for the United Nations ConferenceCenter in Bangkok. This led to a commis-sion for a mirror for the Australian PrimeMinister’s residence, the Lodge (8).

The mirror was not used as expected.“When it was delivered we had just had achange of prime ministers. Apparently the

mirror ended up in the basement. It stayedthere for the next two prime ministers’terms and I heard nothing more about it.Recently, however, we saw an article in thenewspaper about a carved mirror that hadbeen discovered in the basement at theLodge. Nobody seemed to know what itwas, so I wrote and asked about it. I got aletter from the office of the current primeminister informing me that it is my mirrorand that it is now finally hanging on thewall in the Lodge. That felt good.”

Toward the end of the 1980s Grant had

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1. Postmaster Ian proudly poses in front of the

Rock Valley Post Office, the smallest in the

southern hemisphere.

2. Grant’s workshop, nestled among the trees that

he has regrown on his previously denuded

property.

3. “…as the shadows lengthened, wallabies came

down to eat the grass within a few yards of us.”

4. Bowl (1983); Australian red cedar;

7" x 15" x 12"; collection of Forestry Commission

of NSW.

5. Carved Mirror (1983); Australian red cedar;

31" x 21".

6. Senate Office Entry Display Cabinets (1988);

Australian red cedar and red bean; 43" x 55" x

31-1/4"; Parliament House, Canberra.

7. The display cabinets in place in Parliament

House.

8. Carved Mirror (1992); Queensland maple; 39"

dia.; the Prime Minister’s Residence.

9. Side Table [detail] (1987); bleached silky oak;

30" x 70" x 20".

10. Desk [detail] (1992).

11. “Obovoid Form” (2002); Australian white

beech; 17" x 9"; collection of Roger Ford.

12. “Gesture of Balance #2” (2002);

Australian white beech; 14-1/2" X 14-1/2".

13. Carved Form [detail] (2001).

14. “Ovoid Form” (2004); Australian white beech;

10" x 16" x 11-1/2"; National Gallery of Australia.


become so successful as a furnituremakerthat he says he “could have started mechaniz-ing and taking on employees, but I didn’twant to spend my life as a machinist push-ing wood through spindle molders. On topof that we had a recession and for the firsttime I did shows where nothing sold.” Sur-viving into the 90s on sales at a few Australiangalleries and commissions from clients whokept coming back over the years, he devotedmuch of his time and energy to maintaininga professional approach, concentrating ongood photography and clear presentation,and producing owner’s manuals for the

proper care of his work. Grant exhibited at SOFA (Sculptural

Objects and Functional Art Fair) Chicagofrom 1999 to 2005, showing more carvedwork than furniture: “I took a table oneyear, but it was mostly my carved bowls.Furniture is never so easy to sell becausepeople worry if it will fit in their home.They want to go home and measure, butthe show only runs for a few days—and Ilive in Australia. Bowls are easier. I used totake around eight pieces. I kept going till’05 and always had success, but since thenI’ve backed off because it is such hard work

selling so far from home and the costs arehigh. I still sell through some American gal-leries.” He goes on to say that “I want to doit on my own terms. I don’t want to chasemy tail trying to get sales, so I don’t makemany pieces per year. They all sell. It seemseverything I make now is already promisedto somebody. Recently I started selling intoChina and they want more.”

When you look at Grant’s entire body ofwork, it is possible to see how his furnitureevolved into his carved bowls. Many of thelegs on his furniture had delicately carveddetails (9) that evolved into folded, or

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15. Carved Form [detail] (2002).

16. “Continuity” (2005); Australian red cedar;

11" x 22" x 11".

17. “Split Form #2” (2006); Australian white

beech; 16" x 16" x 5".

18. “Split Form #3” (2006); Australian red cedar, 13-

1/2" x 25" x 5-1/2"; Collection of Raymond Wong.

19. Enfolded Form (2004); Australian rosewood,

24-1/2" x 8"; Madhavi – Hong Kong.

20. Enfolded Form (2004).

21. “Reflection” (2005); Australian red cedar;

14" x 26" x 8"; Ron & Anita Wornick Collection,

Boston Museum.

22. Crescent Form (2005); Australian rosewood;

13" x 24" x 5".

23. “Split Form #6” (2008); Australian red cedar;

12" x 12" x 7".

24. Grant’s templates showing the meticulous

measurements and holes for depth drilling.

25. Grant Vaughan in his secluded valley

surrounded by the forest he has regenerated.

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rather unfolding naturalistic details thatbrought to mind the curling leaves of hisforest, or the curl of the waves that he lovesto surf (10). These ideas have often beenreinterpreted in his bowls that appear tounfold in an almost erotic display of asecret interior (11).

Grant says, “In the early 80s buyersknew they just wanted something beauti-ful to look at, but they felt they had to ask,‘What do we do with it? Do we put fruit init?’ I had to meet their expectations tosome extent.” His bowls and vase-likepieces often met this need for pseudo-function, but as he says, “In my mind, theywere never functional.”

His work is always sensuous, delicateand evocative in a way that placed it in thecategory of unique art (12). Several of hispieces are in the collections of the mostprestigious museums in Australia, includ-ing the National Gallery (13 and 14)

From the start, Grant says, “I wanted tobe different. I recognized early that there isno way you can mass-produce this stuff ifyou want to stand out from the crowd. It’svery slow with lots of hand carving andsanding. With some pieces I have really cre-ated nightmares for myself.”

Grant continued to carve ever-finerbowls, emphasizing and enhancing theinner curves that complement the outerline (15 and 16). It was a foray into theinner world of the vessel and it soon ledhim into previously unexplored territory:“I cut away so much that it seemed logicalto separate the two halves and work on

them that way.” By working on the twohalves separately and then rejoining them,Grant was able to make vessels that wereclearly impossible to put things in. In aword, they were sculpture (17). There is akind of wrapped effect when you look atthese vessels, as if there is a vase containedinside delicately carved wings of wood (18).

The final step, one that in retrospectseems inevitable, was to leave the two halvesseparate, allowing them to stand togetheras pure sculpture, mated by their obviousfit, almost their need to interact (19 and 20).

Grant continues to call his sculptures“bowls,” a humble word to describe piecesthat evoke a sense of exploration, a discov-ery of secret places both hidden and yetrevealed (21). Each of these pieces is theresult of a lifetime of careful developmentof design, technique, and thoughtful inter-pretation of nature (22 and 23).

It would be easy to imagine that Grantworks as an intuitive artist, the pieces spon-taneously springing from his mind andevolving as he carves. While there is nodoubt that he is inspired, he is one of themost methodical woodworkers I have met.He draws each piece in detail before hemakes it and then creates plywood tem-plates that allow him to predetermine thecuts by drilling to depths indicated on thetemplates (24). “Doing it this way takes alot of planning,” he says, “but it saves timelater because I can cut at speed.”

When Grant had finished showing mehow he works, we went for a walk in his for-est. We stopped at a few giant trees and he

explained how they were the sole survivorsof the original bush. Not so long ago theywould have been isolated, condemned to aslow death on increasingly leached anderoded land. Now they are surrounded bynew forest and will probably live for hun-dreds of years. Later we sat on the verandaagain (25) and as the light faded the forestcame to life with the sounds of frogs andnight birds. Grant proudly told me how hefeels about his personal contribution tonature: “I think I was an advocate for theenvironment before most people gotinvolved in all this. I can remember rightback at school having roaring argumentswith my father about the environment andsupporting the development of nationalparks. I’ve always loved pristine places thathaven’t been ruined by mankind. Also, I’vealways been conscious of where the wood Iuse comes from–whether it is sustainableor not. For a long time I’ve been using sal-vaged timber, wood that’s been left on theforest floor. Anyway, I use so little timberthat it’s insignificant.”

The next day I drove home thinkingabout Grant’s life. As the traffic built up, thenoise increased and the city soon loomedon the horizon. I couldn’t help feeling thatGrant had achieved something really amaz-ing. He is known and respected both athome and internationally for his wood art,but I think his greatest achievement is thathe hasn’t had to give up his dream. Myrespect for that is enormous. Grant Vaughan can be contacted [email protected]

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Although I’m a professional furni-ture maker, not every piece that Ibuild is an heirloom. In fact, I’ve

discovered that designing attractive, durablepieces that can be built in a short amountof time can be just as satisfying as makingfine furniture. I call these my “6/8” designs,because they can be finished in a day or overa weekend—in six to eight hours.

The table and bench shown here both fitthis description of expedited building.Although they look completely different,their joinery—dowels reinforced with cor-ner blocks—is identical. This simple join-ery doesn’t get much attention these days,but the joints are easy to create and they’revery strong. I learned the technique from ashop near mine that specializes in buildinghigh-end upholstery frames. There, corner-blocked double-dowel joints are used exclu-sively, because they’ve proven to be bothefficient and durable. As you can see fromthe two pieces shown here, you can makevariations easily when you employ this ver-satile joinery. Just use your imagination.

A TAPERED LEG TABLEDramatically tapered legs give this large

table a light and airy appearance, eventhough it’s built strongly enough to supportthree dozen orchids. I made the legs andaprons from construction grade Douglasfir 2x4 and 4x4 timbers that were left overfrom a remodeling job (the timbers hadbeen stacked and allowed to dry for threemonths). The 4x4 timbers were riftsawn(1), which made them perfect for the legs,because all four faces showed straight grain.The top is 3/4" maple plywood. To savetime, I rounded over the plywood edges,instead of gluing on edging. The primerand paint fills the grain.

My normal procedure for assemblingtable bases is to mill the stock, drill for thejoinery and then shape the legs. I squaredand planed the leg timbers to 3" by 3". Aftermilling the 2x4 rails to 1-1/2" thickness, Iripped them to final width. I used my radialarm saw to square the ends of all the piecesand cut them to length.

The one caveat with dowel joinery is that

6/8 TABLESAll in a Day’s Work

BY JOHN SHERIDAN


W O O D W O R K 14 S P R I N G 2 0 0 9

A Legs 4 @ 3" x 3" x 34-1/4"B Short aprons 2 @ 1-1/2" x 3" x 15"C Long aprons 2 @ 1-1/2" x 3" x 58"D Dowels 24 @ 1/2" dia. x 2"E Corner blocks 4 @ 1" x 1-1/2" x 3"F Top 1 @ 3/4" x 24" x 79"G Top fasteners 14 KV #320 or similar

ORCHID TABLE CUTTING LIST

A Legs 4 @ 1-1/2" dia. x 15-3/4"B Short aprons 2 @ 1" x 2-1/2" x 10"C Long aprons 2 @ 1" x 2-1/2" x 17"D Dowels 16 @ 3/8" dia. x 2"E Corner blocks 4 @ 1" x 3/4" x 1-1/2"F Top 1 @ 3/4" x 14" x 25"G Top fasteners 6 KV #323 or similarH Glides 4 @ 3/4" dia.

BATH BENCH CUTTING LIST

PLANS AND PATTERNS

6/8 TABLES


it requires precise layout and sharp bradpoint bits. I prefer to use a Veritas SlidingSquare (#05N32.01) for marking (2), ratherthan the more familiar combination square.I outfit my drill press with a fence to drillthe centered holes in the leg blanks (3). Iuse a doweling jig to drill the holes in theends of the rails. The photo (4) shows myprized Stanley #59, which I found in anantique shop in Asheville, NC, but justabout any dowelling jig will work. For thestrongest joints, the dowels should extendat least twice their diameter into the woodon both pieces. The dowels for this table are1/2" dia., so all the holes are 1-1/16" deep—the extra 1/16" depth helps to ensure thatthe joint will close, by providing a cavity forexcess glue. Whether using the drill press orthe doweling jig, the key to success duringthis step is to locate the tip of the brad pointbit with pinpoint accuracy.

I taper the legs using my bandsaw,equipped with a 1/2" 3-tpi blade. Because

it’s so easy to accidentally taper a leg thewrong way, I mark the outside corner onthe bottom of each leg with an “x.” Thiscorner is the only one that isn’t cut awayduring the tapering. The taper starts 1"below the rail, a standard technique toallow for transition sanding to the rails.After drawing the taper on one face of eachleg blank, I cut to the outside edge of theline. Then I mark the second taper on thesawn face, so the leg rests flat on the tablewhen I make the cut (5).

When both tapers are sawn, I removethe saw marks by jointing. On the jointer,the thick end of the leg goes first, so that thecut follows the grain (6). The photo showsmy trusty old 8" Silver jointer (circa 1918).It still has Babbett bearings, but I replacedthe original square “finger-chopper” cutter-head with a modern custom-made cutter-head that uses Delta knives. I also installeda Northfield blade guard.

Sand the legs and aprons with 100, 150

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and 220 grit sandpaper. Carefully smooththe transition on the tapered faces, so thetaper extends to the bottom of the rail.Complete the legs by routing 1/8" chamfersaround the bottom, to prevent tearing outthe edges when the table is moved. Attachfelt pads, if necessary, to protect your hard-wood floor.

Before I start gluing, I test my joinerywith “fitting dowels” (7 and 8). These dow-els are carefully sawn halfway from eachend, offset 90°, to make them springy andeasy to remove. I use solid dowels forglueup—these dowels must be grooved orspiral-cut to allow excess glue to escape.

Gluing the table base together is a twostep process. First I glue each short apronbetween two legs. Then I glue the longaprons between the two assembled ends(9). I start by installing the dowels in theaprons. Then I press on the legs. Seatingeach individual dowel is easy, but substan-tial forces come into play when pressing insix dowels, to create each end, or twelvedowels, to complete the base. I use Jorgen-son “I” bar clamps for this job. Clampingpads between the legs and clamps are amust, to prevent dents in the wood.

Mitered corner blocks reinforce thejoints and complete the base. I cut andnotch these blocks on the bandsaw and discsand them to fit. They’re glued to the railsand attached to the legs with #10 x 2-1/2"flathead tapping screws.

I fasten the top to the frame with Knape& Vogt (KV) steel tabletop fasteners, whichare available in several sizes from mosthardware catalogs or commercial hardwaredealers. The KV #320 (10, at left) is the bestsize for this table. These S-shaped fastenersslide into slots in the aprons cut with thebiscuit jointer adjusted to the #20 setting.A router equipped with a 3/16" slotting cut-ter works, too. The slot must be positionedso that screwing in the fasteners pulls thetop to securely to the frame (11).

These fasteners are usually used withsolid wood tops, to allow seasonal move-ment. Movement isn’t an issue here,because the top is plywood. I use thembecause they’re economical to buy and easyto install.

Before installing the fasteners, I dustthem with spray paint, to keep them fromrusting; here I used gloss black paint.

I finished this table base with three coats

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of clear waterborne polyurethane. In gooddrying conditions, I can apply all three coatsin less than two hours. The top is satin latexpaint. The painted-on socks visually groundthe feet and add a touch of whimsey.

A TURNED LEG BENCHI designed this small bench for a bath-

room. Its columnar legs match the fixturesand its painted finish matches the bath-room walls and trim. The 3/4" marine ply-wood top is impervious to moisture andplastic glides keep the feet dry. The cylin-drical legs require only basic turning skills,using a roughing gouge, a skew and abeading tool, followed by sanding. Mydesign creates a tight transition from thecurved legs to the flat aprons. The joineryis the same as on the tapered leg table,although completing it requires a fewadditional steps.

Once again, milling the stock is the firststep. Plane and square the leg blanks to 1-9/16" billets (as the squared stock is calledbefore joinery and shaping). Plane theaprons to 1" thick and rip them to 2-1/2".Square the ends of the billets and apronsand cut them to length.

Next, drill 1-5/16" deep dowel holes inthe legs and 1-1/16" deep holes in theaprons. First, lay out the holes on adjacentfaces of each leg. As before, the holes arealways centered across the width. Butbecause these leg blanks are smaller insection, there’s a problem: If the holes aredrilled at the same location in each adja-cent face, they’ll intersect, resulting in aweak joint. My solution is to offset theholes, higher on one face and lower on theother, so they don’t intersect. This creates

another challenge: making sure that theoffset holes drilled in the aprons matchthe offset holes in the legs. My solution forthis issue is to lay out the dowel holes tocreate the legs in two mirror-image pairs.Then I orient the “high-hole” faces withthe short aprons and the “low-hole” faceswith the long aprons. As on the taperedleg table, I drill the leg holes on my drillpress and the apron holes with my dow-eling jig.

At this point, I locate and mark the cen-ters on both ends of all the legs, to facilitateturning; the centers must be marked beforethe next step is completed.

To create the transition from curved leg

to flat apron, both joint faces of each leg areprecisely notched to fit the aprons. First, I usea tenoning jig to cut the cheeks (12). Then Iuse the tablesaw to cut the shoulders (13).The completed notches measure 1/4" x 2-1/2"; the dowel holes should now measure 1-1/16" deep, so the dowels protrude 1" (14).

After mounting each leg on the lathewith the notched end at the tailstock, I usea spindle roughing gouge to turn the cylin-der and calipers to gauge the diameter.Turning the notched end is no big deal; justmaintain the same technique: keep thegouge firmly on the tool rest and applylight, steady cutting pressure. Stop the latheto gauge the diameter. I switch to an oval

W O O D W O R K 17 S P R I N G 2 0 0 9

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skew chisel to make a final cleaning pass(15). It leaves a super-clean surface thatrequires minimal sanding. Turning the legto a cylinder reduces the width of the notchfaces—I aim for them to end up 1" wide. Iuse a 3/8" beading tool to create the foot andround the bottom. Light sanding completesthe job.

From here on, the steps parallel thetapered leg table. I test-fit the joints (16). Ifan apron protrudes beyond the leg’s 1" wideflat notches, I plane the apron’s outside faceto make it flush. After gluing the aprons tothe legs, I install the corner blocks (17). ThenI fasten the top, using smaller KV #323 fas-teners (10, at right).

As I said at the outset, completing a use-ful, well-constructed product in a shortperiod of time is a worthwhile endeavor.After all, life is short and there are so manyprojects to build!

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Toshio Odate apprenticed as a young woodworker in Japanduring the 1940s. He moved to New York in 1958, became arenowned sculptor, and was instrumental in introducingAmerica and Europe to the Japanese craft tradition, publish-ing the seminal work Japanese Woodworking Tools: TheirTradition, Spirit, and Use in 1984.

This article is a loose transcript of a lecture given at the2008 Furniture Society Conference, in Purchase, New York.Toshio’s subject was “The Morality of the Craftsman.” Tobegin the talk, Toshio took a pair of shoes from a box andput the right shoe on the table.

ILet me tell you a simple story about two shoes.

An art teacher had a very special class, consisting of six bril-liant, skillful students selected from all over the country. One day,the teacher took off his right shoe and placed it on a high plat-form in the middle of the room. “Draw this shoe with pencil onpaper as realistically as possible,” he commanded the class.

When the teacher entered the classroom the following week,the students had finished their drawings. The teacher said that hewas very satisfied. But he pointed once again to the shoe on theplatform. “Now you are going to make this shoe as realistically aspossible. You can use any material you wish.”

One student asked the teacher, “Can I make the left shoeinstead of the right shoe?” The teacher thought the question a bitirregular, but permitted the student to do so. He gave the class twomonths to finish the project.

The time passed quickly, and on the appointed day everybodyreturned to the classroom. Five students had made their shoesin all kinds of materials: wood, stone, tin, copper, paper–youname it.

One student held back–the young man who asked to make aleft shoe. The teacher asked him, “Where is your shoe?” The stu-dent pulled it out of a cardboard shoebox. His shoe was made of

W O O D W O R K 20 S P R I N G 2 0 0 9

THE PAIR OF SHOESBY TOSHIO ODATE

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the same leather, had the same sole, featured the same stitchingpattern, and was exactly the same size as the teacher’s right shoe.His father was a shoemaker! Both shoes were now a perfect pair.

III think this story reveals the status of Craft and Fine Art. Theright shoe, the one that belonged to the teacher, was made by ashoemaker for people to wear. As a craftsman, he could not makehis shoes three or four feet long. This wouldn’t serve society.

Fundamentally, crafts exist because society demands a crafts-man’s products. If society does not want them, then the craft, thecraftsman and craftsmanship will die out. For this reason, thecraftsman’s social responsibility is to deliver a service, 100%.

Now, the left shoe, the one made by the student, that’s differ-ent. It may look identical to the right shoe, but it’s Art. It’s notmade to wear. If the artist desired, he could have made his shoeany size, even 100 feet long. An artist finds his or her own pointof view of life and creates objects that reflect it. Therefore, anartist’s social responsibility and obligation is to find a valid con-cept, execute it, then share it with society.

Often you cannot tell just by looking at an object if it is Artor Craft. You have to understand the maker’s intent. Before I told

you the story about the art class, if I had said that the right shoeon the table in front of me is Craft, and the left shoe in my handis Art, I’m sure you would have been confused, and laughed. Now,I hope that this statement makes sense.

IIII came to America in 1958. In 1961 I became an art instructor atthe Brooklyn Museum Art School. The museum neighborhoodwas then quite safe; there was some degree of social order. But inthe early or middle 60s, one of the museum staff was muggednearby. The next day, small groups gathered at the museum, whis-pering about the episode. The same disturbed talking took placethe next day, and day after day; the scene did not fade out for aweek. It was a great shock to every one.

During this period, social order rapidly deteriorated, not onlyaround the museum, but also in the whole city. Sometime in thelate 60s, someone was murdered on the Eastern Parkway, near ourmuseum. I think he was killed because he didn’t have a cigarette.However, this time people stopped talking about it after four orfive days. Neither muggings nor killings were unusual, shockingepisodes any longer.

W O O D W O R K 21 S P R I N G 2 0 0 9


IVMy father was a Shokunin, a craftsman, and I was one, too. I grewup in a country that respects and cares for Shokunin. After I cameto the United States I changed professions to become a teacher andsculptor, but I still maintained the pride of a Shokunin.

I’ve built most of my studio and worked on my house, butrecently I required some carpenters to build a second-story floor inmy studio. I asked a good friend to do the work, but he was too busyand instead sent two carpenters and one young man (an assistantor just a gofer? I never figured that out). They arrived in a pickuptruck, coffee cup in one hand and cigarette in the other. I showedthem the materials and the place to build the floor. The floor was3/4" thick, with 4x8 tongue-and-groove plywood on 2x8 joists.They knew what had to be done.

It was the first time in my life that I watched other craftsmendo work for me. When I was a Shokunin in Japan, I remember howmuch we valued having tea and a little snack at 10 in the morn-ing and 3 in the afternoon. I enjoyed the little rests in the day. So,I did my best in serving the craftsmen. I made coffee, providedsnacks and showed them my respect and appreciation. They stayedthree days and finished the job. I thanked them from the bottomof my heart.

After the carpenters finished, the room below the new floorwas very dark. Four weeks later I laid the first electric line andturned on one small light to lay more lines. I was very excited andhappy. However, I looked up at the ceiling and noticed that a fewnails had missed a joist. I thought to myself, “The carpenter justmissed a couple, not a big deal. I can push them out later and re-nail them.”

But as I continued to look at the plywood ceiling, I noticed moremissed nails! I checked the whole ceiling, and found to my sur-prise that most nails had missed, joist after joist. I was getting angry,then became furious. I could not control my emotions. My sincer-ity was betrayed.

I called up my good friend, but instead of providing sympathy,he laughed at me and said, “Why are you so angry? Everybody doesit. It’s not a big deal! Call the carpenters, and they will return andfix the floor for you.”

However, I did not want to talk with them, did not want to seethem, and did not want them to touch anything. It was not aboutmoney or time; it was their abuse of my trust.

I called another friend, a woodworker in Long Island, and toldhim about the episode. Much to my astonishment, he laughed atme–even more than my other friend. “Where have you been?” hesaid, “That’s nothing! I’ll tell you another story.”

He continued, “I know someone who recently hired a roofer. Acouple of guys went to the job site, did their work, finished the roofand left. A week or so later, the fellow found a few loose shingles.He looked closer at the roof and found that many layers of shin-gles hadn’t been nailed, but the shingles all had nail-gun marks.The gun had been empty! Of course, the guys came back and re-nailed the roof. Their excuse was that an assistant did not knowthe nail gun well.”

My friend also suggested that I should call the carpenters andlet them fix my floor. I didn’t. Instead, I pounded out each nail,one by one, went upstairs and pulled out all the nails. I re-nailedthe entire floor by hand.

VStarting in the early 60s, Craft became very popular in society.Woodworking clubs, craft schools and museums devoted to thecrafts emerged all over this country. They were well supported,both financially and politically. We were proud to say, “I am acraftsman.”

I believe that the popularity of Craft waned rather hastilybetween the 70s and 80s. Crafts centers, even very well-knownCrafts schools, faced financial difficulties and inevitably closed.

In the 90s, organizations and sponsors of Craft shifted theirinterest toward the Fine Arts. Surviving craft centers, schools andmuseums were forced to lean toward the Fine Arts. Some of themeven changed their names. At the same time, have craftsmen lostsocial trust and respect?

Yes, we have.

VIToo often I have heard craftsmen say, “Trustworthy, beautiful mate-rials and work are useless when customers do not understand orappreciate them. And they won’t pay!”

I understand their dilemma, but these craftsmen do not knowthat their social responsibility and obligation is 100% of socialservice. We have to provide our best to society, with sincerity. Wemust build on a strong, true foundation and morality. Perhapsthen we will regain social trust and respect.

W O O D W O R K 22 S P R I N G 2 0 0 9


W O O D W O R K 23 S P R I N G 2 0 0 9

GALLERY

In 1982, 35 members of the San Diego Fine Woodworker’s Association (SDFWA) participated in the first Design in Wood

Exhibition. Today the SDFWA has over 1600 members and Design in Wood now averages over 300 entries and awards over

$20,000 in prize money to entries in 22 classes. Pictured here are several award winners from the 2008 exhibition.

2008 Design in Wood Exhibition DEL MAR, CALIFORNIA

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1.

CRAIG THIBODEAU

“Chess Table”

Macassar ebony, holly,

bubinga

34" x 25" x 25"

2.

JOHN E. KETTMAN

“Boulle Marquetry Cabinet”

Tiger maple, Gabon ebony,

Honduras mahogany

42" x 23" x 76"

3.

JOE DAMATO

“Clarion Angelfish with

Sea Nettle Jellyfish”

Jelutong

19" x 10"

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4.

PAUL SCHURCH

“Sorghum Settee”

Urban claro walnut,

poplar, maple, sorghum

35" x 28" x 74"

GALLERY

2008 Design in Wood Exhibition DEL MAR, CALIFORNIA

5.

RUSS FILBECK

“Ladderback Rocking

Chair”

Curly maple, rosewood

45" x 27" x 43"

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W O O D W O R K 24 S P R I N G 2 0 0 9

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6.

LEO J. KILIAN III

“Under the Pier”

Padauk, ponderosa pine,

poplar, purpleheart, teak,

walnut, yellowheart,

zebrawood

43" x 30"


W O O D W O R K 25 S P R I N G 2 0 0 9

8.

OSCAR KIRSTEN

“Enclosed Vessel”

Claro walnut

16" x 10"

7.

BRIAN D. JACKSON

“Table Lamp with

Shade”

Norfolk Island pine,

mesquite

19" x 16"

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TOM THORNTON

“3 Drawer Jewelry Box”

Walnut, spalted maple,

wenge

8" x 13" x 16"

9.

BRIAN K. CARNETT

“Kluwe Bedside Table”

Wenge, quilted maple

29" x 15" x 15"


W O O D W O R K 26 S P R I N G 2 0 0 9

500 Tables: Inspiring Interpretations of Function and Style is the latest in Lark Book's visually dynamic series that also includes 500 Wood Bowls, 400

Wood Boxes and 500 Chairs. About 2000 entries were considered for 500 Tables, and final choices for inclusion were made by juror Andrew Glasgow,

executive director of the American Craft Council and former executive director of The Furniture Society. As these pieces from 500 Tables indicate,

the books in this series offer samples of outstanding work in traditional, conceptual, and practical modern furniture design. An upcoming title, 500

Cabinets, is scheduled for release in the fall of 2010. A call for entries will be posted online: Visit www.larkbooks.com for more information.

GALLERY

500 Tables LARK BOOKS

1.

STEPHEN WHITTLESEY

"Mandolin" (2007)

Salvaged oak, padauk, cherry

18" x 80" x 24"

Photo by Stephen Whittlesey

2.

JEFF WALLIN

"Tsunami Table" (2006)

Mild steel, rust patina

17" x 48" x 16"

Photo by Keith Cotton

3.

FLOYD GOMPF

"Wheeled Side Table" (2007)

Found wood, found wheels

29" x 18" x 13"

Photo by Richard Hellyer

4.

CRAIG NUTT

"Tomato Table" (1996)

Dyed and natural wood marquetry,

oil paint

26" x 23" x 23"

Photo by Rickey Yanaura

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5.

CHRIS BOWMAN

"Hey Series #1" (2006)

Catalpa, poplar, milk paint

25" x 30" x 8"

Photo by Chris Bowman

6.

BRENT HARRISON

SKIDMORE

"Top Down Boo" (2003)

Plane tree, poplar, steel,

acrylic paints

34" x 57" x 18"

Photo by David Ramsey

7.

DEREK SECOR DAVIS

"In the Realm of the Senses"

(2004)

Pigmented epoxy, aspen

twigs, poplar, acrylic, milk

paint. 35" x 19" x 48"

Photo by John Bonath

8.

MARK S. LEVIN

"Pear Coffee Table with

Drawer" (2007)

Australian lacewood,

bubinga

16" x 43" x 30"

Photo by Margot Geist

9.

DAMON MCINTYRE

"Tea for Two" (2007)

White oak

42" x 48" x 16"

Photo by Damon McIntyre

W O O D W O R K 27 S P R I N G 2 0 0 9

Currently

available by

pre-order,

Lark Book’s

500 Tablesgoes on sale

in May.

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6

7

8

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Atablesaw equipped with a dado setis brutally efficient for cuttingdozens of grooves, dadoes or rab-

bets. I tend to build just one piece at a time,though, so I rarely find myself faced withmaking such a large number of joints. Moretypically, I need dadoes for two or fourshelves, and I turn to an old set of woodendado planes. I also use antique wooden

planes for cutting grooves and rabbets–Ibelieve that all are useful in the modernshop. So too are their metal-bodied equiv-alents, which I’ll talk about in a future issue.

THE PLOW PLANEThere are three different kinds of square

channels typically used in casework: thegroove, which is plowed a distance from the

edge in the direction of the grain; the rab-bet, which is cut along the edge either withthe grain or across the grain; and the dado,which is cut across the grain. There’s a spe-cific plane best suited for each of these cuts.

The plow plane is the hand tool ofchoice for cutting grooves. Plow planeswere typically equipped with a set of eightinterchangeable irons graduated in 1/16"

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increments from 1/8" to 5/8" (skipping9/16"). Unfortunately, plows are almostnever found with full sets of irons. I ownabout a dozen plows, and each one came tome with only a single iron. However, it ispossible to buy loose irons from tool deal-ers and on eBay, and in that manner assem-ble a set. But I should warn you: Not allirons will fit all plows. The closest I’ve cometo a full set is a group of five different ironsfor my Ohio Tool plow (1).

You may need to recondition an oldplane before you can use it (see my article“Restoring a Wooden Plow Plane,” Wood-work #97, February 2006, p. 72), but theyare simple tools to understand and adjust.In some plows—usually the English ones—the arms and fence are held in position bywedges tapped into tapered mortises cut inthe sides of the arm mortises (2, rear). Thearms and fences of early American plows areoften held with thumbscrews (usually madeof boxwood) passing down through theplane’s body to make contact with the fencearms (2, right). Later—and in my view, bet-ter—American plows are equipped withthreaded screw arms, also made of box-wood. The arms pass through unthreadedmortises in the plow’s body (2, left andfront). The fence is held in position by trap-ping the plane’s body between threadedboxwood washers and larger threaded box-wood nuts (3). In this photo, these parts arelaid out in order of assembly.

A plow plane is fitted with a moveabledepth stop that can be set to create groovesup to about 1" deep. In photo 4, the depthstop is the metal shoe visible behind theskate. It’s raised and lowered by a brassthumbscrew on top of the plane and lockedwith a second thumbscrew on the planebody’s left side. Different plows have differ-ent styles of depth stops. The early Ameri-can plow on the right in photo 3, for exam-ple, has a depth stop that’s a piece of box-wood friction-fit into a vertical through-mortise in the plane’s body.

A plow plane iron is quite heavy on thebusiness end, 1/4" or more, tapering to lessthan 1/16" at the top of the tang. Some-times the tang is snecked (a sneck is a metaltab that may be tapped with a hammer toadjust the iron). The iron is held with atapered wedge and is typically bedded at45° to 50°. Each iron has a groove milledinto the center of its back that fits snugly

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on the plane’s metal skate (4). This arrange-ment stabilizes the iron.

Plow plane blades are sharpened likeordinary plane blades. You may have diffi-culty removing a stuck iron, though. Here’show to do it: With the thumb and forefin-ger of your off hand, grasp the iron’s tangand the finial at the end of the wedge (5).Tap the plane’s heel with a hefty mallet, ineffect driving the plane off the wedge andiron. If this doesn’t work, clamp thewedge’s finial in a vise and drive up thebody with mallet blows. (Be careful, toavoid cracking the wedge.)

When you install a sharpened iron,make sure that its groove engages the skate.Turn the plane over, sight along the skateand position the iron so that its cuttingedge just barely peeks above the skate. Thentap the wedge firmly in place with awooden or hard-rubber mallet (6). Somecraftsmen used metal mallets or hammers,but I’ve seen a lot of damage from them,including mushroomed tangs on irons andbroken finials on wedges.

Next, set the fence. Determine thedesired distance between the edge of theboard and the outside edge of the groove,then set the fence by measuring the dis-tance from the inside edge of the iron tothe fence. Snug up the washers on the left-hand side of the plow’s body. Next, checkthat the fence is parallel to the skate. First,measure the distance from the inside edgeof the skate to the front portion of thefence (7). Make the same measurement atthe back of the fence and compare num-bers. If they’re different, adjust one of thewashers. Once the fence is parallel, tightenthe nuts to trap the plane’s body againstthe washers.

You’re ready to apply the plow to thewood. With your left hand, press the fenceagainst the board’s edge. Press the skate(and the cutting edge) down onto theboard with your right hand. Using bothhands, push the plow forward (8). Someusers prefer to start a groove at the far endof a board and work backwards, but I’vealways started at the near end of a boardand haven’t had any problems. If this isyour first time using a plow, I can almostguarantee that your depth of cut will needto be reset. A proper shaving will be thinenough to curl but not quite as thin as onemade by a smoothing plane.

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RABBET PLANES AND MOVING FILLETSTERS

Wooden rabbet planes are simple tools:they’re just comprised of a body, blade andwedge (9, right). They must have beenwidely used in the 19th century, judging bythe number of antique planes around, butI prefer a more sophisticated tool: the mov-ing filletster (9, left and center). Theseplanes have fences, depth stops and slitters.The blades in rabbet planes and moving fil-letsters are flush with the right side of theplane’s body, so you can work right up toan adjacent surface. Some irons are squareto the plane’s body, but many are skewed.

A rabbet plane doesn’t have a fence, soyou must clamp a batten to your workpieceto guide it. A moving filletster’s fence is dif-ferent than a plow plane’s fence. On myplanes, it’s a 2" wide board attached to thesole via a pair of large screws (10). Adjust-

ing the fence is a simple matter of loosen-ing and tightening the screws, but, like theplow plane’s fence, you should measure intwo places to be sure that it’s parallel to theplane’s body.

On a moving filletster, a slitter, or nicker,scores the wood ahead of the iron (11). Thisblade is particularly important when you’recutting a rabbet across the grain, in order tomake a clean cut. My planes have differentslitters: on one, the slitter is wedged in placelike a conventional plane iron; on the other,it’s a length of tapered metal fixed into adovetail-shaped mortise. Slitters must besharp, and are installed so the bevel faces in.Adjust the slitter’s exposure so that the pointextends from 1/32" to 1/16" below the sole.

Both of my moving filletsters haveskewed irons which must be carefullyground and sharpened to maintain the cor-rect skew angle. When you install the iron

in a rabbet plane or moving filletster becareful to position it so that its right outsidecorner is perfectly aligned with the right-hand side of the plane. Ideally, you’ll want abit more exposure of the cutting edgethrough the sole than you would with asmoothing plane.

To cut a rabbet with a moving filletster,crowd the fence against the edge of thestock being rabbetted with your left hand(12). Then, with your right hand applyingboth downward pressure and forwardmovement, begin taking shavings.

Cross-grain rabbets require extra prepa-ration. In order to prevent the plane fromtearing out fibers at the end of each stroke,clamp a backer board onto the far edge ofthe stock (13). When you’re working with arelatively brittle species you might want tofirst score across the grain with a sharpknife, in order to cut deeper than the slitter.

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DADO PLANESDado planes come in a variety of

widths, usually in 1/8" increments from1/4" to 7/8". They are significantly moresophisticated than rabbet planes, but ofcourse they don’t have fences like a mov-ing filletster. A dado plane has twoirons–the primary iron, which cuts theshavings, plus a secondary iron in the frontof the plane that scores the wood on bothsides of the cut (14). The primary iron isskewed, while the secondary iron is reallyjust a pair of slitters ground on the end ofa rectangular blade. The slitter iron is thefull width of the dado, and is sharpened sothat the bevels face in. Dado planes alsohave depth stops of various designs.

While I love using wooden dado planes,it does take some thought to set up a cut(15). A dado plane must be guided by a bat-ten, so in addition to fixing the stockbetween bench dogs, you must also clampor tack a batten beside the dado you wishto cut. Plus, because dados go across thegrain, you should clamp a backer board toyour stock in order to avoid ripping outlong splinters when you complete your cut.As you can see in photo 15, a wooden dadoplane lifts clean cross-grain shavingsbetween the scorings left by the slitter iron.

WORKING IN THE LIGHT OF HISTORY

The truth is, I don’t choose to usethese hand tools because I’m looking forgreater efficiency. I use them for other, inmy view, more compelling reasons. Fore-most among these is a direct and concreteconnection with the history of my craft.

My A. & E. Baldwin moving filletster(16) was made in New York City between1830 and 1841. It was likely used in thatcity or its environs during the first years ofits life by a craftsman whose name is nowlost. The plane traveled from New York toOhio during the next 175 years, perhapsstopping along the way to provide servicein the shops of several other craftsmen.Every time I pick up the plane and apply itto wood, I am connected to those wood-workers. When I smile at the site of a shav-ing curling up from the plane’s throat, Iimagine a similar smile on the face of thecraftsman who first used this tool some-where in New York, a long time ago.

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The things humans have made overthe millennia have depended uponboth the materials available and

our understanding of their properties. Sec-ondarily, we’ve had to develop appropriatetools and techniques to manipulate thesematerials. This is true on the grand scale of,say, the Coliseum in Rome, all the way totiny-scaled items, such as nanomachines.The human scale, where most woodwork-ing efforts reside, is just as dependent uponmaterials.

New materials are not so frequentlyencountered in a field as old as woodwork-ing. In fact, most woodworkers believe thisarea has been pretty thoroughly explored.

Still, industry’s recent introduction of sheetgoods such as MDF, OSB, and particle-board has influenced the types of objectswe make. New adhesives, fasteners andtools can also change the range of shapesthat we make of wood, sometimes dramat-ically. This is the story of a new material forthe woodworker’s arsenal.

Woodworking as I knew it changed sud-denly on a memorable day in January 2001.I had wanted to make small woodensnowflakes, which are exceptionally diffi-cult forms. For the previous 10 years or soI’d been making shop-built plywood out ofveneers, and this particular day I used avacuum bag as the clamping system, some-

thing I’d never done before. While not ini-tially obvious, the difference in this ply-wood was profound. It was more thanstrong enough to withstand the cutting andshaping process necessary to produce thosedelicate snowflakes. I was both surprised(well, astonished, actually) at my successand intensely curious. Having now workedfor several years with this material, I amconvinced that its properties are differentfrom anything I’ve ever encountered. Itlooks like wood, yet it behaves in uniqueways. I call it Fineply.

I’m a long-time woodworker, but mybackground is in basic research, so I’veapproached exploring this material fromthat perspective. Early on in my work withshop-built plywood, before I discoveredFineply, I had settled on marine epoxy asmy adhesive of choice. When you clamp aveneer and epoxy sandwich under vacuumpressure, I suspect that the epoxy infiltratesthe wood fibers of the thin veneers beforeit cross-links and cures. While most of usthink of epoxy as strictly an adhesive, it isalso a plastic, and I believe that Fineplyreally amounts to a form of “plasticized”wood, with properties of both materials.

FINEPLYA remarkable new form of shop-built plywood can stretch your imagination!

BY JERRY SPADY

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1. Shavings from Fineply and ordinary plywood.

2. “Hortense”, the leafy sea dragon (2008);

finish by David Reeves; 20" x 16" x 8".

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Irrespective of grain configuration,Fineply is much stronger than any plywoodI’ve ever used, and this is especially true insmaller dimensions. Fineply is built up inthe same way as ordinary plywood, with thegrain direction alternating in each layer, butthere the similarities end. To give anextreme example, I can plane an intact, ornearly so, ribbon-like shaving from anyedge of a five-layer piece of Fineply (1).Commercial plywood won’t yield intactedge shavings.

I’ve exploited Fineply’s strength to cre-ate very delicate, three-dimensional figuressuch as “Hortense” (2), “Chest of Drawers”(3) or “Neuron” (4). Fineply can also befashioned into thin door panels or legs thatare delicate in appearance, yet strongenough to support weight (5).

Fineply is exceptionally stable. Like ply-wood, it won’t move as much as solid woodwith changes in humidity (a structuraleffect). Recall that Fineply contains epoxy,which in a thick enough film is an absolute

barrier to water, both in liquid and vaporforms. So if you apply an element createdwith Fineply (such as a cattail or a butter-fly) upon the surface of a larger panel ofFineply, the resulting structure should beimmune to the problems associated withwood movement over time (6).

Fineply may be carved to exquisite detail(7). You don’t have to design around prob-lems of grain configuration. You can alsocreate what I like to think of as three-dimensional marquetry. I’ve made Fineplyfrom veneers of contrasting colors, thencarved it to specific depths at specific loca-tions. The different colors or grain config-urations result in realistic images with morethree-dimensionality (see photo 7, nextpage, and 8, page 38).

Exploring Fineply’s properties has beenenjoyable, to say the least. Since I make theFineply myself, I’m freed from reliance ona commercial source, even if one were avail-able. I can make whatever type I wish,including curved pieces that are formed

over a mold (9). (This piece was made incollaboration with sculptor/turner RalphWatts.) Parameters such as the thickness ofindividual veneers, the number of layers,the veneer’s color or contrasting figure, theoverall size of the panel and its curvatureare all under my control. I’ve used bothcommercially available veneers and createdmy own by resawing.

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3. “Chest of Drawers” (2005); 29" x 19" x 12".

4. “Neuron” (2003); 16"x 10" x 6".

5. “Aquarium” (2006); 65" x 32" x 16".


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HOW TO MAKE FINEPLYFINEPLY IS SIMPLY SHOP-MADE PLYWOOD,with a twist. The essential ingredients are veneer,epoxy and a vacuum press.

First, select the veneer (above). You may usevarious colors, as shown here, to create interest-ing visual effects. Cut the veneers to the samelength and width, but alternate the grain direc-tion of each successive layer, like ordinary ply-wood. You can make wider or longer pieces byusing Scotch tape.

Next, cut a couple of pieces of wax paper afew inches longer and wider than the veneer. Youmay have to tape several pieces together.

Put on disposable gloves and mix the epoxy. Iuse West System 105 resin and 205 (fast-set)hardener. Place the first layer of veneer on thewax paper (1). Pour the epoxy on the veneerand spread it around (2). If it starts to soak in,add more epoxy until a noticeable layer remainson top. Don’t skimp on the adhesive—thereshould be squeeze-out and bleed-through dur-ing the vacuum-clamping stage.

Coat both sides of the inner layers. Be sureto orient each layer 90o to the one below (3 and4). Coat only one side of the top layer. Addanother piece of wax paper on top of the sand-wich and wrap the entire sandwich, securing thepaper with Scotch tape (5).

Place the sandwich in the vacuum bag, seal thebag and turn on the vacuum. The wax paper willprevent the epoxy from leaking out in the vacuumbag. Leave the sandwich in the bag for 4 to 5hours to give the epoxy enough time to set up.

Remove the sandwich and take off the waxpaper (6). Let the Fineply cure overnight. Cleanup the excess epoxy around the edges using a join-ter; light sanding will remove the bleed-through.

The resulting material might be a detail carving,such as a decorative fan (7), revealing the differentcolors at different depths in this piece of Fineply.

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Working with Fineply requires a slightlydifferent approach to woodworking. OnceI realized how delicately you can shape thismaterial, I soon ran out of power tools andfound myself reaching for hand tools, suchas hand-cut rasps for rough shaping and #2and #3 (German cut) jeweler’s files for fin-ishing up. Many of the complex and con-voluted shapes I’ve created required smallpieces that were difficult to grasp in my fin-gers, much less a vise. And joining delicatepieces to each other introduced a new setof challenges (3 and 10).

I’ve worked with Fineply for eight yearsnow, and haven’t exhausted ways to use it,nor do I seem to have reached its limits. Infact, I’ve deliberately tried to make strangeforms that I thought might be impossibleto make out of wood. I believe Fineplyopens up a whole new range of possibilitiesin the ways that we can express forms andideas in wood. It’s easy to make and surpris-ingly versatile in application. I hope thereare others out there in the woodworkingcommunity who might enjoy a new mate-rial to play with.

I’m looking forward to seeing wherethis might lead you. You might find your-self looking at jewelry supply houses forthe necessary tools if you choose to workat a delicate scale. As you become moreadept with the material, your projects maywell become almost absurdly labor-inten-sive (sadly, I know this all too well!). Fine-ply will likely introduce new problemsinto your shop, but the challenge of solv-ing them will surely be interesting andrewarding.

9 10

6. “Elaina’s Hope Chest” (2005); 20" x 30" x 16".

7. “Homage to Grinling Gibbons” (2007); detail.

8. “Emily’s Ascent” (2008); detail.

9. “Venusian Houseplant” (2007); 75" x 22" x 20".

10. “Neural Whimsy” (2007); 69" x 33" x 45".


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Most 17th-century households inEngland and New England con-tained one or more small boxes

for storing a variety of everyday objects.These boxes were made in a joiner’s shopand were usually decorated with carving onthe front, and sometimes the sides. Makinga box is a good introduction to some of thebasic elements of the joiner’s craft.

MATERIALSThe box requires several oak boards

whose width becomes the box’sheight–generally 6" to 9". The box’s body iscomposed of two long boards (the frontand back) and two short boards (the ends).Typically the ends are slightly thicker. Endsthat are 3/4" thick and front and backboards that are 1/2" thick work well.

The front and back boards are rabbet-ted to receive the end boards. The joint issecured with three wrought nails or slightlytapered, square wooden pegs, and glued.

The box’s bottom and lid can be whitepine, which allows you to work with a sin-gle board, or oak, which is usually glued upto form the necessary width. Make thesepieces from 1/2" to 5/8" thick. The lid canbe attached with wooden pintle hinges oriron hinges made by a blacksmith (seeGimmal Hinges, page 45).

RIVE THE LOG Oak boards are split or “riven” from the

log. Select a straight-grained, knot-free sec-tion of freshly cut red or white oak. Splitthe log into halves, then quarters andeighths, using wedges and a sledge hammer

or maul (1). Always wear safety glasseswhen driving metal wedges with a sledge-hammer or maul.

Split the resulting pie-shaped bolts witha froe and club (2). You’ll get the best resultswhen you split a bolt in halves, whichequalizes the stress on the timber. Drive thefroe until it is fully buried, then twist thehandle to further the split. Slide the froe’sblade down the open split, and twist thehandle again. Continue until the piecebreaks open. If it’s difficult to lever the pieceopen with the froe, go back to usingwedges. Split your stock slightly oversize, toallow for dressing the boards. Split twopieces for the front and back, and a thirdfor both ends.

Riving produces high-quality radialboards, essentially the same as truly quar-

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RECREATINGA 17th-CENTURY CARVED BOX

TEXT AND PHOTOS BY PETER FOLLANSBEE

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tersawn stock. They’re dimensionally verystable and easier to work than tangential,or flatsawn boards.

DRESS THE BOARDS Green wood is easier to plane and carve

than dried wood; so begin working on therough-split sections as soon as you can.Their stability ensures that the finished piecewon’t distort much as it loses moisture.

Some boards might need hewing first inorder to rectify twisted or unevenly splitsurfaces (3). A hewing hatchet is essentiallya small version of the broadaxe–flat on theback, one bevel on the front.

Now, on to planing. I prefer to usewood-bodied planes, because they won’tstain green oak. Metal-bodied planes mayleave a stain, but it’s usually superficial andcan be removed with one light shaving.

Begin planing the first face of the stockwith a scrub or fore plane (4). Both planeshave convex-shaped irons that removestock quickly. I often plane across the widthof the board, because it requires less effort.The resulting surface must be dressed witha smooth plane to clean up the hollows leftby the fore plane. If a riven surface is rea-sonably flat, I go directly to the smoothplane. As you plane, sight across the topedges of a pair of winding sticks to checkfor twist (5). Green oak planes very easily;so don’t overdo it.

After you’ve planed one face flat, planean edge along the board’s bark edge,removing all of the sapwood first. Makesure it’s square to the board’s face. Then usea chalk line to mark a straight line parallelto this edge at the heart side of the board.Hew and plane this edge, then mark theboard’s thickness by using a marking gaugeto scribe a line around the board’s perime-ter. Plane to the line.

The inner surface of the front boardshould be fairly flat, but it needn’t be per-fect. It mainly needs to be flat so it sitssteady while carving. For the back board,the face inside the box should be the bettersurface. Its outer surface is not very critical,and can retain some coarse tool marks.

When you’re done with each planingsession, disassemble your irons and cleanthem well. Wipe a metal-bodied plane. Wet,acidic green-oak shavings can rust and dis-color blades and plane bodies.

After all the boards are dressed, set them

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aside for a short time for initial drying. Aweek or two is usually sufficient, but thetime required depends on the humiditywhere you store the boards. Carving is eas-ier on timber that is only slightly seasoned.

LAY OUT THE CARVING Carving on 17th-century boxes was laid

out with a compass, straightedge, ruler andawl–not a template. These tools are muchmore versatile; it’s easy to adjust a compassfor variously sized boards. I prefer an awland a marking gauge for layout over a pen-cil because pencil marks are troublesometo remove. I allow some of the scribed linesto remain in the finished carving, in keep-ing with 17th-century practice.

Begin by using a try square and awl todefine the width of the box on the front andinside faces of the front board. Leave about3/4" of waste wood beyond these lines fornailing or clamping the board to the bench.Using the marking gauge, scribe a 1/2" mar-gin along both edges, to define the field tobe carved. Mark vertical and horizontalcenterlines.

While I do all the layout directly on myboard, you may want to make a pencilsketch of the general layout before scribingthe wood (6). Set the compass to the dis-tance from the horizontal centerline to oneof the horizontal margins. Starting at oneend, scribe a half-circle above the horizon-tal centerline. When the leg of the compassswings over and hits the centerline, pivotthe compass and scribe the next half-circlebelow the centerline. Continue leapfrog-ging these half-circles until you reach theother end of the board. Close the legs ofthe compass a bit and, using the centerpoints you created before, scribe the innerhalf-circles. This time you must lift thecompass and move it to each center point.With a square and awl, scribe vertical cen-terlines that run between the circles andthrough their centers.

OUTLINE THE PATTERN For removal of the background, I use

several different gouges and chisels, includ-ing a V-tool, at least two fairly large gouges,a smaller, slightly curved gouge, and somealmost flat narrow gouges (7). SometimesI also use a shop-made punch for texturingthe background or accenting the carvings.

The angle between the tool’s handle and

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the board determine the carving’s depth.Beginners tend to carve too shallow.Remember, as you’re carving you’re closerto the piece than you will be when it’s fin-ished, so don’t be afraid to cut a little deeper.Experiment with different angles: thesteeper the handle, the deeper the carving.

Using the V-tool, begin carving the half-circles on the upper section of the pattern.Go from the top center towards the bottomleft (think 12 o’clock to 9 o’clock). While inthe same position, cut the bottom circlesfrom the right-hand centerline towards thebottom center of the circles (3 o’clock to 6o’clock). Using the same posture to makesimilar cuts helps with uniformity and effi-ciency. Switch your posture and cut theremaining half-circles, working your wayalong the board (8).

Strike a small, tightly curved gouge withthe mallet to incise the beginnings of thepattern within the half-circles (9). This usu-ally requires two overlapping strikes, sideby side. The first is connected to the endsof the inner half-circles. Next, use a fairlywide curved gouge to begin defining thethree-lobed leaves (10). Strike the gougetwice, to the right and left of the semicir-cles, top center. Do all the cuts to the right,then switch around and do all the ones onthe left. Make the next cuts with a moresteeply curved large gouge, to connect thetwo elements cut previously (11). This takestwo side-by-side chops with the gouge.

CARVE THE BACKGROUNDBegin removing the background with a

very shallow curved gouge (12). Instead ofthe mallet providing pressure, these cuts aremostly done with hand pressure. Supportthe cutting edge of the tool by resting yourlower hand on the wood. Brace the handgripping the handle against your torso.Some of the force comes from your body,not from moving your arms.

Move the tool side to side by hand asyou work it up to the incised cuts of theoutline. The chip will pop up. If the verti-cal cut is not deep enough, sometimes thechip does not pop out. In this case, the ten-dency is to try to flick it with the gouge.Don’t do it. Redo the vertical cut to releasethe chips.

Half of the background is now removed.All that’s left are the hard-to-reach spotswhere the upper and lower patterns meet

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(13). I often use the mallet to get in here;hand pressure in these tight spots cansometimes go astray and remove somethingthat’s meant to stay.

Once all the background is removed, usethe V-tool to cut a centered line between thehalf-circles. These cuts are not as deep as theoriginal outlines. Cutting them too deep canbreak off the outlines’ “positive” wood.

Use the shallow gouge to bevel the areabetween the arcs of the half-circles (14). Myleft hand is braced against the board, andthe tool pivots from the heel of my hand.Do all the arcs to the right, turn around anddo all the arcs to the left.

Next, use the large curved gouge to dec-orate the leaves (15). Make the first cutstraight down into the wood; make the sec-ond cut with the tool held at an angle, cre-ating a sort of crescent moon motif.

Small punches were often used to adddetails to carvings. For this pattern, I useda punch made from an old cut nail with asmall cross filed into its end. I strike it witha hammer, once for each spot (16). Here’sthe finished carving (17).

MAKE THE RABBET JOINTS Cut the rabbets after the carving is done.

It’s best to keep the front and rear boards alittle extra long, to help prevent splitting.Dress and cut the end boards to final length.

Use a marking gauge to scribe the rab-bets’ depth, referencing from the board’sflat face. Saw the rabbets’ shoulders with thestock braced in a wooden bench hook (18).Use a backsaw or tenon saw. Cut down tothe gauge line.

Holding the piece upright, either in avise or clamped to the bench’s edge, splitout the waste with a broad chisel and mal-let (19). Straight-grained quartered timberusually splits cleanly and accurately. At first,position the chisel just inside the waste sideof the scribed line and lightly tap the chiselwith a mallet. The wood should split downto the sawn shoulder. Repeat as necessary.

Lay the board face down in the benchhook and cut across the grain with a long-bladed paring chisel to make the rabbet flatand even (20). (A rabbet or shoulder planeis a good alternative to using a chisel.) Takethe rabbet down to the scribed line cut withthe marking gauge. Both rabbets need to bein the same plane–this is one of the mostcritical factors in making the box. Check

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GIMMAL HINGES

LIDS ON 17TH-CENTURY BOXES andchests were often hinged with iron “gimmals,”made by a blacksmith. (They’re also calledsnipebill or snipe hinges.) Gimmals are essen-tially two linked rings with split tails, like a pairof cotter pins. I’ll show you how to install themon a box.

First, chop two small V-notches in the backboard, one for each pair of hinges (1). I just eye-ball their locations. Bore small-diameter holes ata downward angle from the back (2).

I use a square-sectioned reamer to enlargeand taper the holes (3). You might be able to dothis with a tapered file. You’re aiming for a tightenough fit that you need to drive the hinges inwith a hammer, but not so tight that you bendthe hinge or split the oak.

Hammer each hinge into the box so that the ring in the box is vertical(4). If the ring sticks up above the box after you’ve driven it home, ham-mer it downwards, then give it another rap inwards.

Spread the hinge’s legs inside the box, and clinch them back into thewood (5). To prevent the hinge from withdrawing, back it with a scrap ofsteel. Bend the tips of the hinge’s tails with pliers, or just knock them aboutwith the hammer before setting them. Consistent light blows yield betterresults than brute force.

Place the lid upside down on the bench, position the box on it and eye-ball the proper placement of the box. Scribe the location of the hinges nearthe rear edge of the underside of the lid; then bore holes straight throughthe lid, not at an angle. Ream the holes and knock the lid down onto thehinges, alternating blows to bring the lid down evenly.

Test the way the hinges work, making sure the cleats clear the sides ofthe box and that the lid sits all the way down at the front. If all is right,spread and clinch the hinge’s tails (6).

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them with the winding sticks and make anynecessary corrections. The flatness of thewood between them isn’t so critical.

After finishing the rabbets, set the endboard in place, with the front board facedown on the bench. Mark just outside theend board, then cut the front board tolength with a handsaw. Do the final trim-ming with a plane, after assembly, butbefore the bottom gets nailed on.

To locate the rabbets on the inner faceof the rear boards, first mark out a shoul-der at one end of the rear board. Leaveabout 1-1/2" beyond the shoulder, toaccommodate the rabbet and the pintlehinge extension. (If you are using ironhinges, make this rabbet just a bit longerthan the thickness of the end board.)

Next, lay the front and rear boards facedown, with their bottom edges buttedagainst each other. Line up the scribedshoulder with its counterpart on the frontboard. Then mark the shoulder-to-shoul-der distance from the front board to therear board (21). Position the end boards inplace, then scribe against their outside sur-face to determine the overall length of thebox’s carcass (22).

If you’re making pintle hinges, cut therabbets extra long to allow for the hinge’sround tenon (see 36). Cut the rabbets asbefore, saw the back board to length andwhittle the tenons.

ASSEMBLE WITH PEGSBore three 1/4" dia. holes in each rabbet.

I bore from the inside of the rabbet becauseit’s easier to center the holes by eye. Markthe end boards with an awl (23). (Here, I’mworking on a box with different carving.)Remove the front or rear board and boreholes into the side pieces’ end grain.

Make pins that are about 5" long fromdry, straight-grained riven oak. I split themout with a carving knife and pare them witha broad chisel (24). They should be just theslightest bit tight in the hole and veryslightly tapered along their length.

Assemble the box by gluing each jointand driving in the pegs (25). A tight fit takesa shaving off the corners of the pegs (26).Trim the pegs flush with the surface usinga sharp chisel with the bevel down. Don’tpare straight across the peg’s head, butcome in from both sides. This eliminatestear-out as you come off the peg.

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Decorate the front corners with a row ofgouge cuts (27). Work by eye and strike thegouge with the mallet.

ADD THE BOTTOMDress the bottom board, but leave it a bit

oversize. Set the box on the bottom board,flush with the rear edge. Scribe lines on thebottom board, inside and outside the box(28). Measure about 1/2" to 3/4" from theoutside lines, then cut and plane the boardto size.

Bore pilot holes for nails to secure thebottom (29). Don’t position a hole too closeto the corner joints. I use two nails in eachshort end and three in each long end.

Using a fairly long plane, form a bevelaround the bottom board (30). Plane theends first, then the sides. Squat down andsight the bevel as you work. You’re aimingfor a neat appearance, but it doesn’t have tobe perfect.

Countersink holes for the nails by mak-ing two swiveling passes with a carvinggouge (31). Set the box upside down andposition the bottom. Transfer the nail holesby poking an awl through each one.Remove the bottom board and bore theseholes. Nail on the bottom (32).

ADD THE LIDThe lid has a thumbnail profile, but you

don’t need a molding plane to make it.Mark a line around the lid to define thethumbnail’s fillet. Clamp a board on theline to guide a rabbet plane, then shave rab-bets around the lid (33).

Use a smooth plane to gradually formthe thumbnail shape (34). This is all doneby eye. Plane the end grain first, and keepthe plane skewed for a smoother cut.

The lid has two oak cleats nailed to itsunderside. Here’s the procedure if you’reusing wooden pintle hinges: Make the cleatswider towards the rear and bore holes intothe ends of each cleat to receive the pintle.Bore pilot holes through the cleats for nails.Lay the lid on the bench and position thebox and cleats. Mark nail holes in the lidand drill them. Nail one cleat in place,clinching the tips of the nails on the uppersurface of the lid (35). Slip a piece of steelunder the nail head so it doesn’t back out.Slide the lid into position on the pintle, slipthe next cleat in place, flip the box over, andthen nail the second cleat (36).

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Tom Caspar: You've been writing aboutwoodworking in the United States for quite awhile, including the comprehensive book FourCenturies of American Furniture. How didyou become acquainted with the Renwick'scollection?

Oscar Fitzgerald: I live across thePotomac from Washington, D. C., and theRenwick has been a favorite place to visitever since it opened in the early 1970s.Compared to most of the other Smithson-ian museums, it has a nice, cozy feel. You canactually take everything in on a single visit.The Renwick's studio furniture collection isamazing–86 pieces and growing, one of thelargest collections in the country.

TC: I understand that the Smithsoniandidn't expressly set out to assemble a represen-tative group of modern studio furniture. Howdid their collection get started?

OF: When the Renwick buildingbecame vacant after the Court of Claimsmoved out in the late 1960s, the govern-ment was trying to figure out what to dowith it. Lloyd Herman, who worked at theSmithsonian, wrote a letter suggesting thatit be turned into a gallery for travelingexhibits focusing on design. Dillon Ripley,then the head of the Smithsonian, broad-ened the idea to include arts and crafts aswell as design and it was finally accepted.Lloyd became the first director. Themuseum did not intend to have a perma-nent collection, but people kept trying todonate stuff so finally they started accept-ing craft objects. The rest is history.

TC: Many furnituremakers I know begantheir careers in the 60's and 70's, influencedby a number of earlier pioneers. You've calledthis vanguard "the first generation." How isthis period covered at the Renwick?

OF: The Renwick is fortunate to have astrong body of work by this first generation,including Wharton Esherick, the patriarchof the field, Tage Frid, who taught a wholegeneration of makers, and GeorgeNakashima, whose work recently has gonethrough the ceiling on the auction market.Nakashima’s work epitomizes the philoso-phy of this group–an almost mystical feel-ing for wood. His Conoid Bench (1) featuresthe free edge that is typical of his work. Itlooks simple, but think of all the decisionsthat went into cutting that board for theseat: length, thickness, width, angles, etc.When you see Nakashima wannabes thatjust don’t get it, you realize how sophisti-cated his work really is.

TC: You've identified a number of laterbuilders as interpreters of the first generation.What do you mean by that?

W O O D W O R K 48 S P R I N G 2 0 0 9

Studio Furniture at the RenwickFurniture historian Oscar Fitzgerald discusses his newcatalog of contemporary artisan-made furniture at theSmithsonian American Art Museum’s Renwick Gallery.

BY TOM CASPAR

11530_RenwickGallery_F.qxd:Woodwork Feature 1/14/09 12:42 PM

OF: The reverence for wood and techni-cal skills of these first-generation artisans stillresonates with many makers. You can seeboth of these concerns expressed in DavidEbner's Stool (2). He chose beautifully fig-ured walnut and put it together with finely-cut dovetails. It’s all about wood and join-ery. He’s definitely carrying on this noble tra-dition. Many still agree with Art Carpenter'sassessment that furniture should be aboutfine woods and fine craftsmanship. Every-thing else he termed “Artiture.”

TC: Studio furniture isn't entirely free fromhistorical styles. Some builders have adaptedtraditional designs, haven't they?

OF: There’s a whole group of cabinet-makers that like to make reproductions ofhistorical styles and the Renwick has one ortwo examples in the collection. Other mak-ers start with historical designs and updatethem. Take the work of Timothy

Philbrick–he started out restoring antiquesand then went through the Program in Arti-sanry at Boston University, where he cameunder the influence of John Kirk, an expertin the antique-furniture world. Philbrick'sCurly Cherry Cellaret (3) is loosely based ona design from Thomas Sheraton, but it hasbits and pieces of other styles, like the legs,which are found on Emile-JacquesRuhlmann’s work in 1920s France.

TC: Some of the pieces at the Renwick seemto tell a story or comment on our culture.

OF: I interviewed all of the makers rep-resented in the collection, except, of course,the dead ones, and most of them told methat they avoid political or social commen-tary because they want their pieces to makea positive impression. But some of them doinclude personal biography in their work.This is true of Tommy Simpson, whose G.W. Cabinet recalls a childhood play he was

in when his pants ripped. Kim Schmahmanntakes a more cosmic view with Bureau ofBureaucracy (4), his take on Western Cultureand his place in it. The series of flat drawersin the front hold all his important papers likehis birth certificate, immigration papers andeven his death certificate not yet filled in.One alcove reproduces the reading room ofthe Library of Congress, which he sees assymbolizing the repository of Westernknowledge. Another series of drawersaddresses issues in the workplace, like a glassdoor, top drawer, back door, etc. The bureautook him five years to complete, which Iguess is not too long for a piece that purportsto be a summary of all of Western culture.

TC: Although wood is the primary mate-rial used in the Renwick's collection, studiofurniture has certainly embraced metal andtextiles as well. Why do you think wood hasretained its status?

W O O D W O R K 49 S P R I N G 2 0 0 9

1.

George Nakashima

"Conoid Bench"

1977

Walnut, hickory

31-1/8" x 84-1/2" x 35-5/8"

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OF: Wood is the traditional material forfurniture and it is what we expect. It can befashioned into almost any shape. It is warmand inviting to the touch and the grain pat-tern can be dazzling. Metal, on the otherhand, is everything wood is not–cold, hardand foreboding. And that is just the reasonfor its attraction. I think it’s the shock value.Jim Rose made No. 56 Seven-DrawerCounter, a reproduction of a Shaker cabinet,in cold, hard steel. For Lectern, Albert Paleyshaped the metal in seemingly impossibleways. When Garry Knox Bennett was askedto make a contemporary rendering of an18th-century antique from the Museum ofFine Arts in Boston for an exhibit they spon-sored in 1989, he made Boston Kneehole (5)out of alternate materials, including brick,aluminum and plastic laminate. It definitelyachieves the shock value he intended, whichis what you would expect from a man trainedas a sculptor, not as a furnituremaker.

TC: Natural wood, whether planed smoothor left in the rough, was revered by those first-generation builders. More recent artisans haveexperimented with color and texture. Is thistrend now widely accepted?

OF: Definitely. When Tom Loeser andWendy Maruyama first started paintingwood in the 1970s the first generation ofmakers were outraged at the desecration ofthe wood. But now it is accepted practice.For example, Rob Womack, the artist whodid All Sound, uses furniture (found furni-ture–he doesn’t even make it) solely as a can-vas. Most cabinetmakers don’t go that far,but they are definitely interested in bright-ening up brown furniture. John Eric Byersspends many more hours applying up toseven coats of paint to each little square ofhis furniture, such as his Hat Box Chest (6),than he does on the cabinetry. I also thinkthat as exotic woods from the rain foresthave become less PC, cabinetmakers areturning to other techniques like paint toenliven their work.

TC: Although this collection is mostly func-tional furniture, a number of sculptural piecesare also included. Historically, hasn't Ameri-can furniture often crossed this line?

OF: The old art versus craft thing. It reallycomes down to definitions. Art is suppos-

edly useless and craft is functional. But artdoes have a use, too, to provide an aestheticpleasure. Furniture also provides aestheticpleasure besides being functional. It is inter-esting to me that more and more artists areturning to furniture as a medium for theirmessage. I think this is because furniture isso familiar and easy to relate to. It's the per-fect medium for trying to convey their ideas.All the furniture in the Renwick providesvisual pleasure and most of the pieces arecompletely functional as furniture. The mostglaring exception is Wendell Castle’s GhostClock (7), which is all made from Honduranmahogany, including the sheet. It was actu-ally part of a series of functional clocks, butGhost is not a real clock. It certainly func-tions as an aesthetic pleasure. I can’t tell youhow many times I have stood in the galleryand overheard people complain that the staffhad not removed the cover from the clock.

TC: While leafing through your catalog, anumber of whimsical pieces just made mesmile. We can relate to well-designed furniturein a number of ways, right?

OF: Humor is always good. Every time Isee Richard Ford’s Uncle Rick’s WonderlandI get a warm feeling. It affected his three-year old niece that way, too, when she gaveit the name. When you see CraigNutt’s fantasies, such as RadishSalad Bowl (8), you can’t help butwonder “What was he thinking?”And I think that’s the point. Hewants us to reconsider what fur-niture is all about. You might say,“What do vegetables have to dowith furniture?” When you askCraig that question, about all hewill tell you is that he likes gar-dening. I’m still trying to figureit out and in the end I think theyare just vege-tables.

TC: In addition to stunning,full-page photographs of the collec-tion, Studio Furniture contains along chapter that's a gold mine ofinformation. It's a statistical snap-shot based on a questionnaire sentto all the artisans whose work is atthe Renwick. What was the pur-pose of this research?

OF: This essay grew out of a project I didduring a Renwick Research Fellowship sev-eral years ago. When I first started gettinginterested in this field, I was overwhelmedto find that there are maybe 20,000 artisansmaking furniture on one level or another.You can’t talk about 20,000 different people,so the question was, who were the most sig-nificant? My son is a chemist and in the sci-ence field they determine the importance ofresearch by the number of citations a papergets. So I had one of my students, CharleneJohnson, count the number of major arti-cles and books on each maker and from thatI tabulated a list of the top most-cited mak-ers. I interviewed them to get a snapshot ofthis group, asking how they were trained,where they worked, what their aestheticinfluences were, shop practices, and howthey marketed their goods. The essay in thecatalogue does the same thing, but it focuseson the artists in the collection. You'll find alot of interesting stories in there!

The photos in this article are from STUDIO FURNI-

TURE of the Renwick Gallery, Smithsonian Ameri-

can Art Museum by Oscar P. Fitzgerald. Text and

images copyright 2007 by the Smithsonian Ameri-

can Art Museum. STUDIO FURNITURE was pub-

lished in 2008 by Fox Chapel Publishing. For more

information, visit www.FoxChapelPublishing.com.


W O O D W O R K 51 S P R I N G 2 0 0 9

2.

David Ebner

"Stool"

1974

Black walnut

16-1/2" x 15-7/8" x 14-1/8"

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3.

Timothy Philbrick

"Curly Cherry Cellaret"

1994

Cherry, satinwood, fossil ivory

54" x 41-1/2" x 22"

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4.

Kim Schmahmann

"Bureau of Bureaucracy"

1993-99

Various hardwoods, veneers,

mother-of-pearl, gold leaf, brass

96" x 36" x 24"

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5.

Garry Knox Bennett

"Boston Kneehole"

1989

Honduran rosewood, maple, aluminum, brick, Fountainhead,

ColorCore, antiqued bronze, watercolor

31-1/4" x 50-11/4" x 24"


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6.

John Eric Byers

"Hat Box Chest"

1999

Mahogany, milk paint

72" x 21" x 20"

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7.

Wendell Castle

"Ghost Clock"

1985

Honduran mahogany

86-1/4" x 24-1/2" x 15"

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8.

Craig Nutt

"Radish Salad Bowl"

1998

Maple, birch, tupelo

55-5/8" x 21" x 21"

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It’s impossible to fall asleep while DavidUpfill-Brown talks. At the very firstword, you’ll cock your head like a ter-

rier, trying for your life to figure out hisaccent. Born in South Africa and raised inRhodesia, now Zimbabwe, David has livedacross the English-speaking world, fromAfrica to England to Australia, and, cur-rently, the coast of Maine. Just as the sunnever set on the British Empire, it hardlysets on the path this man has taken. Thesound of him speaking, by turns staccatoand flowing, serious and playful, smoothand rough, contains all the places he’s evercalled home.

Once you’ve gotten a handle on David’saccent while listening to him at a slideshow, during a lesson or in friendly conver-sation over lunch, you’re liable to learnsomething and laugh. A conversation withhim will easily range from the history offurniture to poetry, from ecology to con-temporary artists and makers. You’ll leavethe time you spent with him amazed at thedistance you’ve covered, bemused and a lit-tle jetlagged, and finally sorry it had to end.A tall man, about 6' 2", and wiry, with astrong jaw and bright blue eyes set slightlydeep in their sockets, David is 60, limber,and seems fit and ready for anything. He’llhike a local mountain, cross-country ski,

toss a Frisbee, or take out his fishing rodwhenever he gets the chance. Sometimes,you may have the sense he isn’t quite wherehe wants to be, as if he is being kept froman appointment elsewhere. The variety ofhis thinking, his action and his conversa-tion, which may seem almost impossiblycharming and entertaining, really representan internal restlessness, a constant desire toreturn to his work. He needs his shop, histools, his craft. He needs to make and makeand make. Everything else is a distraction.

Since 2004, David has been at the helmof the Nine-Month Intensive course at theCenter for Furniture Craftsmanship inRockport, Maine. He’ll be leaving behindthe full-time teaching schedule in 2009 andreturn home to Australia and the necessityof doing his own work. “I miss the making,”he says.

David learned the basics of woodwork-ing from his father. A soldier who lost hisleg in WWII and “a Victorian,” as Davidcalls him, Tony Upfill-Brown was a “confi-dent amateur,” who made built-in andstand-alone furniture, often in a Georgianstyle. From an early age, David acquired anappreciation of craft and of the historybehind the craft. Even so, his father, hopinghis son might cotton to a vocation moreviable than art, sent David off to a two-year

stint in England for better schooling. Afterserving the time without much success,David was hauled back to Africa, where hisfather imagined the discipline of army lifemight do him some good. He lasted a yearin conscription before making his escape.He hadn’t yet guessed that his disciplinewould come in exactly the way his fathermight have wished it wouldn’t.

In the late 60s, as Rhodesia pursuedindependence from British rule, a move-ment began to promote indigenous craftsproduced by Africans. Because Rhodesiahad large deposits of soapstone, includinga form called serpentine, local stonecarv-ing took off. Early carvers made the mostof familiar cultural symbols, particularlythe Zimbabwe bird, a stylized eagle, whichhad been used in carvings centuries earlier.Indeed, the name Zimbabwe, whichRhodesia later became after independence,comes from the name for the ancient stonecity of Great Zimbabwe, completed some-time between the thirteenth and sixteenthCenturies, and now in ruins.

After his release from the army and stillin his early twenties, David started a busi-ness exporting traditional and contempo-rary native crafts from Rhodesia to SouthAfrica via Botswana to avoid duties. Notmuch time passed, though, before David

SEEING THE WORLD WITH DAVID UPFILL-BROWN

BY PATRICK DOWNES • PHOTOS BY DAVID UPFILL-BROWN

WW11527_Upfill-Brown_F.qxd:Woodwork Feature 1/14/09 12:32 PM

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grew restless, as if to parallel the country’sgrowing pains. “I was selling indigenouswork,” he says, “and I realized the stonecarvers were having the most fun.” He tookwhat he calls a “few weak lessons” from acarver named John Takawira and washooked. He turned to doing carving himself.

Political and cultural pressures, however,would force him to look for a better placeto live and work. The persistent racial andnationalist struggles, coupled with theexpanding guerilla warfare, drove him toemigrate to South Africa in 1973. Oncethere, David acquired a set of 12 Marpleschisels and set to work. All but entirely self-taught, he carved wood and stone. Relyingon the African vernacular, he carved bowls,heads, figures, anything he could sell to sur-vive. “I had been around people workingwith their hands all day, every day,” Davidremembers. “And they’d used everythingavailable to them, even flattened coffeecans.” What’s more, he lived for two yearsin a house without electricity, working thewood entirely with hand tools. This con-sciousness of material and means informsDavid’s sensibilities as a craftsperson evennow. “The best way to learn the material,stone or wood, is to carve,” he says.

The three years David spent in SouthAfrica were extremely productive and edu-cational. David’s father, recognizing hisson’s deep commitment, made him a wed-ding gift of six tons of Rhodesian soapstoneand serpentine as a gesture of respect. “I

almost used it all up,” David remarks.“There was little of that stone left.”

David sold everything he made. He soldto local galleries and a community of SouthAfrican craftspeople, gave interviews andshowed up in articles, which increased hischances of selling more work. Out of all thiscarving and sculptural work came his firstsolo exhibition, in 1976, at the SouthAfrican Association of Arts Gallery, in CapeTown. “When you put yourself out there,”says David, “be prepared to be hit down.What a good lesson. I appreciated thepraise, what there was of it, but the harshcriticism hurt.”

Inside this experience was a deeper les-son for him. As an artist, he resistedexplaining his work. “I didn’t want to haveto qualify it or defend it. I wasn’t aware oftrying to say anything in my sculpture. Iwas producing, getting better and trying tostay alive.”

When he turned to furniture, Davidfreed himself of having to justify his workin the language of art critics. Furniture, byits inherent implication of functionality,seems to liberate the maker from having toexplain it. A chair is a chair, regardless ofwhether or not it has symbols carved intoit. And David would come to like this free-dom. “The function of furniture,” he says,“gives sanction to make more.” He exploredsculptural furniture as it was being carriedout in the United States at that time, copy-ing furniture he found in photographs that

came from the pages of Fine Woodworking.Six months after his solo exhibition in

Cape Town, David emigrated to England toescape the regime of Apartheid in SouthAfrica. “England was a sanctuary fromwhite Africa and white supremacy.” Fromthe artist’s point of view, “it was the OldWorld.” To survive, he took care of houses,worked with cattle, forested, did carpentryand house restoration, and used his carv-

W O O D W O R K 60 S P R I N G 2 0 0 9

2 31

1. “Conversation Piece”

Queensland silver ash and micro-suede upholstery

28” x 48” x 20”

1995

2. “Cellists’ Dining Set”

Jarrah

Chairs: 35” x 20” x 17”

1998

3. “Great Sea Bird”

Whale bone

44” x 13” x 4”

1975

4. “Demi Lune”

Queensland silver ash, jarrah

31-1/2” x 55-1/2” x 24”

1991

5. “The Swallow”

Oak (former knee of sailing ship)

36” x 30” x 7”

1979

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ing skills for everything from making signsto restoring antiques. Much of his commis-sion work for his furniture came fromfriends and family.

Around this time, like so many otheryoung furnituremakers, David stumbled onJames Krenov’s A Cabinetmaker’s Notebook.“It was an epiphany,” he says. “It seemed allabout lifestyle and cats. I could do withoutthe cats; it was the lesson of the lifestyle thatstruck me.” Little did he know he wouldend up at one of the premier schools in theworld for furniture craftsmanship, ready topursue that lifestyle of freedom, productionand creativity.

One day in 1979, the partner of David’saunt, Colonel Berthe Tansley-Witt, askedhim, “Have you heard of John Makepeace?”Then: “Did you know he runs a schooldown the road?”

The revelation of Makepeace’s ParnhamHouse would change David Upfill-Brown’slife for good. “I realized I could get a rele-vant training,” he notes, and this meant hecould get ahead faster. “I knocked on Make-peace’s door and asked him, ‘What do Ihave to do to come here?’” After the testsand interviews, acceptance came. Even so,David says he flipped a coin to decidewhether or not he should attend. Alreadyworking hard and making a go of it, he wasa free spirit who had not enjoyed school,and he worried he might chafe at the bit.Fortunately, the coin landed right side upfor Parnham.

“Parnham was all about making. It wasmonastic. It was expensive; I sold the fam-ily silver to help pay for it.” Unlike his class-mates, David had a wife and child at home.“I was a useless father. Parnham was twovery full years, and I couldn’t get enough ofit. I’d get home after midnight every night.”

The curriculum was separated over twoyears in the simplest way. The first year, thestudents followed the principal, a masternamed Robert Ingham, building a series ofprojects alongside him, much like an inten-sive apprenticeship. The second year, all thestudents worked at their own projects withdifferent instructors. David saw little ofMakepeace himself. “He would comearound every so often, look at the student’swork, and say, ‘Too thick, too heavy, toosolid.’” Still, the students visited his shopweekly and could see for themselves thecutting edge of British fine furniture.

The primary reason to go to school,David suggests, is for shortcuts to know-how and efficiency. “I was always aware oflearning more,” he says of Parnham. He readbooks, steeping himself in the history of fur-niture even as he was surrounded by thecontemporary designs coming out of Make-peace’s shop. He continued to learn fromFine Woodworking. One can’t learn every-thing, David stresses–the volume of knowl-edge is so enormous–but to learn in ninemonths or two years what it might take theself-taught a decade to figure out helps adeveloping maker hit the ground running.

At Parnham, David finally realized hehad become a maker. Fulfilling the projects,and then the final exhibition of studentwork brought it all home. Once he leftschool, though, he had to get back to thebusiness of making his way and supportinga family.

The desire to leave England for self-suf-ficiency and the search for a frontier forwork–and his wife, Hermione, who refusedto return to Africa–propelled David to emi-grate with his family to Australia in 1982.He arrived with tools, $500, and a daugh-ter he and his wife could still bathe in alarge bucket. After settling outside Can-berra into a shop with a fellow Parnhamgraduate, he pursued and began to receivehis first public commissions.

“If I could choose a perfect career, Iwouldn’t include commissions,” he says.“But in the cut and thrust with a client, youpush each other. Both of us learn newthings.” In the end, these commissions, bothpublic and private, set David on his way.“Government work is good.” He grins andadds, “Public commissions up the respon-sibility. Deadlines are deadlines.” Heacquired a reputation for being fast, which,to some, is part of what defines a true mas-ter. David credits some of his opportunitieswith these commissions—such as theSpeaker’s Chair he built for the AustralianParliament, which led to a string of parlia-mentary commissions throughout thePacific–to his ability to carve, long since

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honed. He had at least one more arrow inhis quiver.

In addition to living and working sonear the seat of government, where thepublic commissions could be sought, Davidbelonged to the woodworking and craftscommunity of Canberra. The cameraderieand word of mouth brought a lot of work.By exhibiting with his colleagues and peers,which revealed a dedication to furtheringthe whole community, he could show hiscommissioned work, sometimes inprogress, even though there was no guar-antee for sales. Over his career, he has hadtwo solo exhibitions of his furniture,including one in Australia in 1988, and hasbeen part of more than thirty-five groupexhibitions all over the world.

From 1985 to 1993, together withHermione, David managed the Canberraagency for an Australian lumber company,selling around eighty species of Australianand international furniture timbers. “I’vealways tried to get a grip on the character-

istics of different wood species, particularlythe local ones,” he says. “Imagine havingroughly 36,000 board feet out back. WhenI stacked the new stock, I picked out the bestboards for myself. I’d kid my customers thatthey were buying second-hand timber.”

One last, meaningful element to David’spublic persona as a maker is his teaching.Since 1985, he has taught off and on anddeveloped his style in venues ranging fromthe Canberra Institute of the Arts to morecareer-oriented schools, such as the Aus-tralian School of Fine Furniture, where heserved as academic director and principal.He credits his continually evolving sense ofdesign to his students over a quarter-century.

And what of David’s own sensibilities inthe shop? “I abhor the dreaded right angle.So my work involves a lot of curves. I shapeby bandsaw and finish by hand, and I stillcarve when I can. Sometimes, I think I lam-inate too much.”

His work is deeply informed by whatGeorge Ingham, the brother of his old

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6. “Three Sisters”

Silver birch, birds-eye maple, leather

3-5/16” x 6” radius

2005

7. “Pair of Chair”

Jarrah, silk upholstery

30” x 26” x 20”

1988

8. “Chaise Lounge”

Australian cedar, white beech, velvet upholstery,

gold and sliver leaf, paint

26” x 84” x 24”

1989

9. “Jardiniere”

Queensland maple

48” x 15” x 15”

1988

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ON TEACHING

By David Upfill-Brown

WHEN I ENROLLED AT PARNHAM HOUSEin Dorset, England, in 1979, I’d had blessed littleexperience with good schooling. Though thebrainchild of John Makepeace, Parnham’s princi-pal was Robert Ingham, a man who seemed tome wrought to total honesty by his work. Theintense first year of training at Parnham hingedon Ingham’s project-based curriculum. Over thatyear, students built eight or so set projects, whichIngham designed annually to serve as progres-sive learning exercises. The students didn’t inter-pret his models; this wasn’t independent, ego-driven experience. Instead, the students builteach project with Ingham exactly as he intendedit to be built. I was in the third group of studentsat Parnham, and Ingham’s method was finelyhoned by the time I began. It was a blissfulkindergarten, where the logic and techniqueswere fully demonstrated, sometimes once andsometimes five times a day. I believe Ingham wasappreciated by every one of his nearly 200 stu-dents over 20 years.

The second year of independent projects,with six visiting instructors, developed from thefirst year of close technical apprenticeship. Stu-dents could explore the limitless possibilities offurnituremaking based on tradition and attentionto method. It was at Parnham that I recognized,maybe for the first time, the give and takebetween students and instructors, and howmuch the group of students had to offer. The flowof ideas through a classroom is one of the primebenefits of my teaching now.

Not long after leaving Parnham House, I emi-grated to Australia, where I joined a workshopalongside another young maker at Cuppacum-balong Craft Center, a few miles south of Can-berra, on the Murrumbidgee River. As intended,I took what I’d learned at school and got towork for myself. I had no immediate thought ofpassing on the wisdom in any other way thanthrough my furniture. But fate intervened.

I worked for years, building anything andeverything I could. Finally, in 1985, George Ing-ham, Robert’s brother and a former second-yearteacher at Parnham, called at the shop. George,by this time, had been two years at establishing

the Wood Studio of the Canberra School of Art.George was not a large man. Even so, he hookedhis finger under my collar and dragged me out-side. “David,” he said, “I would like you to comeand teach at the school. You are becoming a her-mit and you need to get out more.”

After a shor t time teaching twice-weeklynight classes to motivated vocational students, Iwas asked to teach project-based classes in theschool’s degree and diploma programs – six fullweeks on chairs, lamination or veneering. I didthis for nearly eight years, teaching one or twosessions a year. What I discovered from theseclassroom workshops is that learning is one ofthe pluses of teaching. There’s no getting aroundit, every class has mature and immature students.Group dynamics are mysterious but controllable.Generosity and careful, almost trick-full, cajolingreap rewards, encouraging the discouraged andtaming the rogue. The ‘realm of ideas’ in a brain-storming session advances design solutions forall. The inclusion of women in a group pushes thedesign potential of that class. Every student hasa voice and ability, however confused or uncon-fident. Large egos can, unless carefully handled,damage the dynamic, usually by fraying tempers.And, importantly, the group teaches itself – col-leagues inevitably learn from one another.

My greatest pleasure comes while watching

the students work, seeing their confidence grow.Working with wood, possibly the mostintractable medium, even leads some to discoversomething deep within themselves, perhaps a pri-mal connection to those who fashioned the firsttools. For many students, the craft generates apowerful physical, practical and emotional intel-ligence. They become something like dancers orathletes, individuals whose minds speak throughtheir bodies.

These were the lessons I picked up from mystudents, but I also gained insight into teachingfrom fellow instructors across the art school. Onesuch bit of wisdom revolves around criticism. Itcan’t be overestimated how well-crafted, construc-tive criticism can encourage a student, and howneedless and damaging negative criticism maybecome obstacles to a student’s learning. Criticismrequires honesty, yes, and also tact and grace.

I have taught for nearly 25 years, from main-land Australia to Tasmania to–the past fiveyears–coastal Maine, at the Center for FurnitureCraftsmanship. Now I must get back to my ownshop, leaving the classroom hoping I have givenmore than I have taken. I thank George Inghamevery day for pulling me from the shop intoteaching. Without the cross-pollination andexploration, I would not only be a lesser maker,but a lesser man.


Parnham principal, a onetime teacherhimself, and one who pushed and encour-aged David to teach, called “species-spe-cific design,” which means using the rightwood for the task, seeking what mid-cen-tury sculptors meant by “truth to mate-rial.” His sensitivity to the nature andbehavior of various woods comes from hislong history as a carver, working the mate-rial with hand tools.

“Very few of my pieces are satisfactoryto me,” says David. “Some might be preten-tious. Or they might be mundane, donejust for payment.” He feels as if his trueambition, to find a purity of form in hiswork, has not been fulfilled. Still, headheres to that ambition. Relying on thehistory of furniture, the lineage, which

many makers choose to uphold in someway, and his own sense of tribal, ethnic andlocal vernacular, his work often crossesboundaries. It seems very nearly sculptural,without the baggage of being defined assuch, since it is functional.

As he gets nearer to the time when hewill be working again for himself and leav-ing his teaching to just part of the year,David looks forward to making pieces forhimself. After a life of selling nearly every-thing he has made over thirty-five years, hesays he doesn’t care if what he makes in thefuture sells. “I love the making, and I wantto come up with pleasing objects.” Then,with a smile, he adds, “I’m beginning tothink of myself as a bloody artist.”

10. “Amatory Chairs”

Cherry, leather upholstery

30” x 28” x 19”

2006

11. “A Dry White Season”

Queensland silver ash

34” x 65” x 18”

1986

12. “Ceremonial Chairs”

Queensland silver ash, leather upholstery

52” x 24” x22”

1987

13. “Music Stand”

Queensland walnut

64” x 26” x 18”

1984

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W O O D W O R K 66 S P R I N G 2 0 0 9

Even though I have a small fortuneinvested in tools, I always seem to beshort of wooden handscrew clamps.

But daydreaming about buying ten more ofthese versatile tools runs smack into thereality that such a purchase requires spend-ing anywhere from $200 to $450, depend-ing on the size of clamp. Ouch!

Several years ago, I resolved to satisfy myneed for clamps by making my own, using

the chunks of this and that from my scrappile, which waxes and wanes with the sea-sons. In September, this pile spills out acrossthe shop floor, but by late December, thefrigid Maine weather has reduced it to noth-ing. Until spring, the morning race to getsome heat in the shop becomes a little likethe Mississippi River steamboat races of the1800s, the crew dismantling cabins andupper decks to provide fuel for the roaring

boilers. So, my rule of thumb is to makeclamps before the heating season starts.

The first batch of clamps that I madewere similar to Jorgensen handscrews,except for having wooden screws. I turnedmaple and ash on my lathe to make my ownwooden screws, and threaded them with ascrew box. The resulting clamps workedwell, with one important exception: Theywere a bear to adjust; cranking them open

SHOPMADE HANDSCREWS

Thread your own wooden screws

BY STEVEN BUNN

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and shut was laborious. When a tricky glue-up was writhing on the bench like a crazedanaconda, and speed was of the essence,these clamps wouldn’t do.

Then, while flipping through a book Ipurchased at a flea market, I spied twowooden clamps in a photograph taken atOld Sturbridge Village in Massachusetts.These clamps were similar to the ones I hadmade, with a crucial difference. Where bothscrews on my early clamps threaded com-pletely through the opposing jaw, the Stur-bridge examples had one screw that passedthrough the threads and one that seated ina stopped hole. Both screws were securedto this jaw with garters. So as the screwsturned, they either forced the jaws open orpulled them closed. Shouting the (unprint-able) Maine equivalent of “Eureka,” Irushed to the shop to build a prototype.There must be an unwritten rule sacred tocabinetmakers (at least to me, anyway), thatthe paying work isn’t nearly as interestingas the harebrained schemes that we invent.Several hours later, I held in my hands aclamp which effortlessly twirled open andshut. Here’s how to make your own woodenhandscrews, like the one I devised.

MAKE THE JAWSI usually make these clamps in batches.

Start by milling and sawing kiln dried stockfor the jaws. The dimensions for each jawblock are 1-3/8" wide on the clamping face,1-1/2" inches thick, and 9" long. Arrangethe blocks in pairs and mark the outer sideor cheek of each pair with a triangle thatpoints to the mouth of the clamp (1). Openeach pair of blocks to their clamping facesand mark two points on one, 1-1/4" and 4-1/2" from the back end. Hold the blockstogether, with their ends flush, and use asquare to strike lines across both faces, run-ning through the points you’ve marked.Mark the center of each line to locate thescrew holes. Then label the diameters andindicate whether the holes go through orare stopped (2). Taking this step avoids con-fusion if you make these clamps in multi-ples. Also, mark the jaw faces “left” and“right” and “top” and “bottom.”

Chuck a 5/8" brad point bit into yourdrill press and position a fence so the bit’spoint lines up with the center points you’vemarked on the jaw block. Always keep themarked cheeks of each pair of jaw blocks

pointing outwards (3). This ensures thatthe drilled holes will be equidistant fromthe fence in each block, so that the holes—and the jaws—will be coplanar when theclamps are assembled.

If you’re making a batch of handscrews,now is the time to clamp a temporary stopblock to the fence, to ensure that holes aredrilled consistently in each set of blocks.Place the left jaw blank on the table, againstthe fence. Bring the bit down and align itspoint with the mark that’s nearest theblock’s top end. Clamp the stop blockbehind the jaw block.

Drill a 5/8" hole completely through theblock. This will become the threaded holefor the top screw. After drilling matchingholes in all your remaining left jaw blocks,reset the stop block and drill the second(lower) hole in each left block.

Remove the stop block and reset thedepth stop to drill the 5/8" x 1" deepstopped hole in each right jaw block. Placethe right jaw, clamping-face up and markedcheek out, against the fence, with the bradpoint centered on the location of the tophole. Install the stop block and drill the 1"deep hole. Do the same for any other right


W O O D W O R K 68 S P R I N G 2 0 0 9

jaw blocks. Install a 3/4" brad point bit,reposition the stop block and drill a 3/4"inch hole completely through the jaw blockat the location of the lower screw. Youshould now have left jaws with two through5/8" holes and right jaws with one stopped5/8" hole, and one 3/4" through hole (4).

Clamp each left jaw block clamping-faceup in your bench’s shoulder vise. Then,using a 3/4" tap, carefully tap both 5/8"holes (5) to accept the 3/4" dia. screws youwill make next. A 3/4" woodthreading kit(tap and thread box) is available fromWoodcraft (#12T14). Note: I start with 5/8"dia. holes, because the root diameter of mytap is 19/32". The holes’ additional 1/32"dia. make it easier to get the cutter started.Check your tap’s root diameter and adjustthe size of the starter holes you drill, if nec-essary.

Cut the angled face on the outside cor-ners of each pair of jaw blocks to form theclamp’s mouth (6). Clean up the angled

cuts with a disc or belt sander. Finish thejaws by easing the outside edges with a 45°chamfer router bit.

TURN THE SCREWSI have lots of split-off pieces of green

maple and ash lying around, because I pri-marily make Windsor chairs. I turn myscrews from this leftover material, becauseit turns and threads easily. I split out 1-3/8"to 1-1/2" square billets, trim them to 16"lengths and turn them on my lathe to 1-1/8" dia. Then I mark out the handle, allow-ing for some waste on the end. My handlesare based on the profile of the handles ona set of chisels of which I am particularlyfond (7). Personalize your clamps by turn-ing the shape of your handle as you wish.

Turn the remainder of the shaft to 3/4" dia.I have always found it best to turn my screwshafts slightly undersize at this stage. Whetheror not my calipers are slightly out of sync withmy drill bits (and every other blessed thing),

it is a fact that a shaft that’s turned too largewill bind when its fed into a screw box. Sodon’t get fixated on being overly precise (see“Performance vs. Art," page 71).

Mark out and cut the grooves in thescrews that will engage the garters in the jawswhen the clamp is assembled. Notice thatthese grooves are located at opposite ends ofthe two screws. On the lower screw (the onethat installs nearest the jaw mouth), thegroove is located near the handle (8). On thetop screw, the slot is on the opposite end. Iturn the end of this screw down to justunder 5/8" dia., and then cut the gartergroove. This section should be a little longerthan 1", to allow for trimming.

THREAD THE SCREWSCutting the threads is a simple process,

because green wood works so easily.Clamp the screw in your bench’s shouldervise, shaft up. This frees up both hands toturn the screw box. The box’s guide (or

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starter) block keeps the shaft aligned withthe thread cutter as you start to feed thework into the tool. The threads on the bot-tom screw run from its tip to the flat sec-tion that precedes the garter groove (9).

The top screw threads start beyond thegarter section on the end and extend all theway to the handle (10). The screw box’sguide block will bottom out against the han-dle before the last threads can be cut; theblock must be removed to finish the job.

First, back the screw box off the threadedportion of the shaft. Then unscrew its guideblock. Removing this block exposes the V-cutter that actually cuts the threads. Take thepartially-threaded screw out of the vise andrethread it into the screw box: Carefully turnthe screw by hand, until its threads engagethe screw box’s threaded body. Then turnthe screw box like a nut to move it down thethreaded shaft. The exposed V-cutter willengage the final unthreaded section and cutthreads very close to the handle before it

bottoms out (11). Before you try out your newly threaded

screws, set them aside for a week to dry out.They will shrink enough in diameter toturn easily in the threaded jaws. If you areworking with kiln dried stock, you don’thave to wait, but you may have to run thethreads back and forth through the screwbox several times, and do the same with thetapped jaws, to get a looser fit (see “KilnDried Screws, page 71). Loose is good.Remember that threads are really spiralwedges, so they tighten as they close. Aloose fit allows the clamps to twirl easilywhen you are adjusting them.

ASSEMBLYMake sure the non-threaded 3/4" and

5/8" dia. portions of the screws fit smoothlyin the appropriate holes drilled in the jaws.Resize the shafts, if necessary. Test fit bothscrews to ensure that the two jaws will seattightly together when closed (12). First, seat

the 5/8" end of the top screw into itsstopped hole in the jaw. Then trim the end,if necessary, until the threads seat againstthe jaw’s clamping face. Next, test the non-threaded portion of the lower screw in its3/4" dia. hole. The threads should extendslightly into the jaw’s body. If necessary,take another turn with the screw box. Butbe careful not to cut the threads too closeto the garter grooves. (Clamping puts pres-sure against the garters, which in turn puta lot of pressure on the garter groove shoul-ders—they can break out if there isn’tenough heft between the threads andgroove.) Complete the screws by trimmingthe waste off the end of the handles.

Mark the location of the garters for bothholes in the right jaw. The best way to dothis is to lay each screw in place on the jawand tick off the garter locations with a pen-cil (13). I drill 3/16" x 1" deep holes (14),being careful that they are far enough apartso that the garters (3/16" square pins that

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are driven in) don’t rub or bind the screwshaft as it turns. I aim for the garters to pro-trude 1/16" to 3/32". Any less, and the screwgrinds the garter to dust and runs over it.Any more, and the shaft binds when thescrew is turned. When I have an overly tightgarter, I have two choices: keep working thescrew back and forth until the garter and

screw wear in, or be patient and wait untilthe green screw shrinks a bit more.

Make the 3/16"-square garter pins out ofany available hardwood. I cut mine about1-1/2" inches long. Thread both screws ontothe jaws and seat both garter sections. Thendrive the garter pins into the round holesand trim them flush. Finally, clamp the

assembled handscrew on your workbenchand belt sand both sides until the jaws areflush. This removes any misalignment intro-duced when the holes in the jaws weremachined at the start of the project. Onceyou have made one handscrew, you can usethe same technique to create them in anysize. The process is the same.

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PERFORMANCE VS. ART

FIRST AND FOREMOST, these clamps are tools which I expectto put to hard use in my shop. I have gotten to the point whereI no longer sand the screw handles, or do more to the assem-bled clamps than give them a quick pass or two with a belt-sander to flush up the sides of the jaws when the clamp isclosed. I find that the turning-tool marks, left unsanded on thehandles, add to their “grippyness.” I also don’t worry about wane,small checks or other defects in my handles, because the screwdoesn’t have to be visually perfect to work. In the same vein,small chip-outs in the wooden threads are acceptable, becausea screw thread is, in reality, an inclined plane. Even with smallchip-outs, there is still a lot of bearing surface between the maleand female threads of the screw and jaw. Only if a number ofadjacent rows of threads are chipped out or broken off is thescrew ruined.

KILN DRIED SCREWS

GREEN WOOD cuts like a dream, but dry stock can be bothtough and brittle. Threads can chip off if the wood is really dry.If you use kiln-dried material for screws you can (1) either runthe threaded tap back and forth through the threaded jaw whileapplying side pressure, to help open up the width of thethreaded opening, or (2) carefully adjust the depth of the V-cut-ter in the thread box itself, so it cuts deeper while threading.Another option is to liberally wipe the screw shaft with turpen-tine before you cut the threads—I’ve found that wetting thewood this way helps the screw box cut more cleanly.

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As director of Country Workshops,a small crafts school focused ontraditional woodworking, I have

enjoyed organizing an annual internationalcraft tour. Since 1991, we have visited Swe-den, England, Switzerland, and Japan. Iorganize each tour with someone wellversed in the regional crafts and local cul-ture of the country we visit. During these

tours, we take a small group off the beatenpath to meet skilled craftspeople. Althoughwe mainly visit woodworkers, we also seeartisans such as potters, blacksmiths, andbasket makers. We stay in B&B’s, churchconference centers, and local pensions.When we repeat a tour, we build on the bestof previous tours by adding exciting newvisits to our itinerary. Through these tours

I have developed outstanding contacts andenduring friendships.

I’m interested in the construction of tra-ditional wooden boats, so I am always look-ing for boatbuilding schools. I have foundseveral in Sweden, where Jogge Sundqvistand I have led five craft tours. One of themost interesting schools is StensundFolkhogskola, loosely translated as Stensund

TEXT AND PHOTOS BY DREW LANGSNER

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Folk High School.‘High school’ in this context is nothing

like the American institution with the samename. These Folk High Schools in Scandi-navia were started in the late 1800s as placesfor rural adults to learn practical new skills,such as advanced farming methods andcrafts that would potentially provideincome during the winter months. Folkhigh schools started in Sweden, but soonspread to Norway, Denmark, and Finland.

During the 20th century, these typicallyresidential schools evolved to includecourses unrelated to crafts or farming. Forinstance, in addition to the traditional boat-building program, Stensund has courses insocial services such as drug abuse counsel-ing, preparation for the Swedish PoliceAcademy, and outdoor education. Students

can be any age, though most are youngadults. Although tuition is free—even forforeigners—students must live on campusand pay room and board. Enrollment for aone-year course begins in August and endsin May. At some schools, including Sten-sund’s boatbuilding school, students canreturn for a second year of advanced study.All courses are in Swedish, so languageemersion is part of the experience.

In addition to teaching specific subjects,the folk high schools share a holistic teach-ing philosophy. They view students both asindividuals and members of society; theyoffer both hands-on and academic pro-grams. Students share meals, workdays, andmaintenance of buildings and grounds. Allstudents live on campus during the classweek. There is no formal final exam or

degree awarded at the completion of theseprograms.

Learning by doing is the basis of eachcourse. Sloyd, the magic word borne of thiseducational movement, means not onlyskilled mechanical work such as boatbuild-ing, but also refers to the mental and phys-ical development that learning such a craftencourages. Preben Moller, Stensund’s mas-ter boatbuilder and teacher (1), explains,“The most central goal is that each studentwill have a good life. The boatbuilding issecondary.” But then he adds, “Of course ifa student becomes a boatbuilder I will bevery happy.”

Stensund is located about an hour southof Stockholm on an old estate built by awealthy businessman in the early 20th cen-tury. The main structure (2), an impressive

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formal mansion, offers a stunning view ofthe Swedish archipelago (3). Several smalldocks with wooden boats made by the stu-dents line the shore (4), where a wood-firedsauna house sits on the narrowest possiblerocky peninsula—inviting the brave to dipdirectly into the cold Baltic Sea.

This coastline is a wondrous archipelagowith thousands of low islands rising fromshallow waters. Because the entrance to theBaltic Sea between Denmark and the south-eastern tip of Sweden is narrow, this bodyof water has scant tides. Prevailing windsstir the only waves, resulting in placid waterduring periods of calm weather. Myriadislands, some forested, others bare—and allvery rocky—dot the waters. Wild swansswim among the many boats, includingwooden sailboats, which line the townmarinas at small private docks.

A museum housing the school’s collec-tion of old wooden boats sits on the shore(5). Getting boats for the collection iseasy—almost every week someone calls theschool with an old boat to donate. Until

recently, boats and boatbuilding played alarge role in the economy and social life ofthis area since well before Viking times, asboth professionals and farmers made boats.These mainly small craft were typicallyopen, with no deck, cabin, or enclosed hold.Most were rowed, although some had mod-est sailing rigs.

The real action at Stensund happens inthe boatbuilding shop, where several boatslie in various stages of completion (6).These boats are based on designs from the1800s through the early 1900s, althoughthey share characteristics of much oldercraft, dating to Viking watercraft. Thedesigns, which evolved over centuries, area perfect expression of form followingfunction. The beautiful, fluid lines of awooden boat are the result of what one canmake with wooden planks and very basichand tools. Almost all are lapstrake con-struction—overlapped horizontal plankingriveted to naturally curved vertical woodenframes. These boats are mostly made fromlocal pine and oak timbers. In the recent

past, it was common to use homegrownflax for sails and locally produced ropes andhardware. These small boats, ranging fromabout eight to twenty feet, are protectedwith a tar and flaxseed oil finish. Some ofthe second year students work on restora-tion projects such as rebuilding the smallengines in these boats.

Fifty-seven year old Moller gives theimmediate impression of someone whollydedicated to his work (7). He made his firstboat when he was just fourteen years old.Before coming to teach at Stensund, hetaught woodworking for eight years at aWaldorf school in nearby Jarna. He wasinvited to start the woodworking programat Stensund in 1993 and he embodies thefolk school tradition. “I must also developin order to see my students grow, to be soengaged that I’m here the first thing everymorning. Teaching is learning,” he insists.

Moller’s students come from manybackgrounds. He explains that, “Manycooks have come to the boat shop. Foodmust be beautiful. You have to think about

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the ingredients. Boatbuilding is the same.”He goes on to say that his students could be“artists, computer people, drug addicts,nice girls from high school, carpenters, any-one.” Although most of his students areyoung, Moller observes, “The older stu-dents appreciate everything and work thehardest.” Sixteen students are accepted foreach school year; those wanting to attend asecond year are accepted first.

Since Stensund sits at the same latitudeas southern Greenland, Moller tells howthe program is closely linked to the seasonsof the far north. The group first assemblesin mid-August for a ten day sailing andcamping trip. At this time, everyone getsacquainted and learns to work as a team.At 6:30 a.m., the group wakes to clean

camp and prepare breakfast. Boating takesup most of the daylight hours. Every night,two students take a full hour to tell theirlife stories.

After the camping trip, the days quicklyget darker and colder. (I’ve been lucky tovisit Sweden three times in October andeach time enjoyed warm, sunny days.) Thestudents are divided into teams of three;each team will make a small boat from startto finish. After studying plans, key con-struction details are lofted (drawn) full sizeon the shop floor. Lofting is very importantin boatbuilding because almost every com-ponent of the boat is curved, with varyingangled sides or ends. Accurate measure-ments come only from the full-scale draw-ings. Molds, which represent the cross-sec-

tion of the boat at various stations alongthe length, are taken from the lofting andmade of inexpensive plywood.

Boatbuilders usually make each compo-nent and attach it to the structure as workprogresses; the boat takes shape through-out this process. This is unlike other kindsof woodworking, where woodworkersmake many parts and then fit themtogether in a single session. Constructionbegins by building the keel, bow stem, andtransom (8). This is by far the most diffi-cult part of a wooden boat to make, and ithas to be well done. The rabbet (a two-sided groove of continually varying angles)accepts the planking on each side of thestem and keel (9).

When this backbone is complete, themolds are carefully tacked into place usingthin longitudinal strips (10). Next theplanking, which begins at the keel andworks upwards to the gunnels (the rim ofthe hull), is installed. On most of theseboats, the actual structural ribs will bemade and attached after the planking iscomplete, whereas in other boatbuildingtraditions, heavier ribs are fitted before fas-tening the planking.

Planking begins with the lowest boards,called garboards. Each garboard consists oftwo planks scarfed together to make alength that will fit perfectly from stem tostern. The ends and lower side of the gar-boards are given a continuously variablebevel that will bed against the rabbet in thestem, keel, and transom. The garboardsmust be twisted into position, and thenclamped into place for securing with cop-

W O O D W O R K 75 S P R I N G 2 0 0 9


W O O D W O R K 76 S P R I N G 2 0 0 9

per nails. Each plank is bent by limberingwith a heat gun, and then brushed with rawlinseed oil on all surfaces. The joints are alsocaulked and bedded with a mixture of wooland tar. It takes a team of three students afull month to make and attach these twoplanks. While easier to make, the second setof over-lapped planks still takes three weeksto complete. Successive planks are securedwith copper rivets. In October, when thegarboards are complete, the students travelto Denmark where they learn to make ropefrom natural fibers (11).

When classes resume after a Christmasbreak, the cold winter weather keeps every-one focused in the shop. Students see theboats “grow” as each plank is made andinstalled. In mid-February, the studentsscatter to spend one week with a profes-sional boatbuilder. Light starts returningin March as the boats take shape andexcitement builds. The planking is now fin-ished and the students take another week-long excursion to Sweden’s Åland Islandfor sail making.

Upon returning, students focus oninstalling the internal structural ribs thatsupport the boats’ planking. The ribs onthis type of boat are made from naturallycurved branches, or they are steam-bentfrom sawn planking. Fitting ribs to thecurved hull interior is tricky. The gunnel(the hull rim) is re-enforced with riveted

oak strips called inwales and outwales.Thwarts, or cross planks which provideseating and re-enforcement for the hullshape, are made and fitted. Finally, themolds are removed.

The students make the mast and sparsnext. The mast step is a special bracket thatholds the mast in place. These boats typi-cally have a sprit-rig, a short mast and alight diagonal spar (the sprit), which is

lashed near the base of the mast and at thefar upper corner of the four-sided sail.Sometimes there is a small jib held in placewith handmade rope. The rudder andtiller require careful fitting and customhardware—as do the complex oars. Manystudents must collaborate to craft thesespecial parts. Finally, the boats are finishedwith about nine coats of pigment mixedwith boiled linseed oil. Moller says, “Youmust use your eyes. That is the mostimportant thing to do. The boat must bebeautiful.”

At the end of the school year, Stensundalumni return to help complete the boats.The students work late into the night, striv-ing to do their best work—the details seemto take forever! At last, launching dayarrives in May, when families and friendscome to see—and try—the boats in thebeautiful archipelago (12). Students finetune the rigs and make necessary correc-tions during the final week of school. Theboats are then sold to help finance theschool. Moller declares, “The world is nowricher with beautiful boats” (13).

Contact informationStensund Folkhogskola619 91 Trosa, Swedenweb: www.stensund.see-mail: [email protected] (from US) 011 46 156 53200

13

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W O O D W O R K 82 S P R I N G 2 0 0 9

LOOKING BACK

Sometime in the haze of the 1970s,Armand LaMontagne, a wood sculp-

tor from Rhode Island, sought revengeagainst the museum world. He had beenrebuffed by curators when he questionedthe authenticity of some antique furni-ture, so he set out to vividly demonstratethe experts’ gullibility.

Armand painstakingly built a close copyof an extremely rare 17th-centurymedieval-style turned chair, as would havebeen made in the Massachusetts BayColony, using green wood and period tech-niques. He tortured the chair to appear asold as the rocks of New England, placed iton the porch of a rural house fronting aroad often travelled by a well-knownantique dealer, and laid in wait.

Sure enough, his prey bought the chairfor a song. It passed through a number ofother dealers’ hands before being pur-chased for a hefty sum by the Henry FordMusem, where it was proudly displayed forfour years as a genuine relic of the PilgrimCentury. LaMontagne then pulled histrump card: claiming that he had faked the

entire chair (which the curators roundlydismissed), he challenged them to x-ray theholes that received the spindles.

A 17th-century joiner would have useda spoon bit, but the x-ray revealed thatthese holes had clearly been bored by amodern drill bit. LaMontagne's skill hadfooled the experts.

This story, and many more, are pleas-antly recounted in one of my favoritebooks on the history of furnituremaking:Fake, Fraud, Or Genuine?, by Myrna Kaye(Little, Brown and Company, 1987). Writ-ten for the non-woodworker as a series ofdetective story whodunits, Kaye delves deepinto the arcane world of how furniture wasmade years ago, and how a few clever arti-sans have tried to make a buck by trickeryand fakery. It’s a sideways introduction tothe rich history of our craft, and animmensely enjoyable read. As in a classicSherlock Holmes story (of which I'm a bigfan), the author presents detailed, factualclues and a carefully reasoned analysis todetermine whether a supposed antique iswhat it seems to be or an imposter.

As a young apprentice, I cut my eye-teeth repairing old American, Englishand French furniture. I learned how tobuild–and how not to build–by closelystudying these survivors. Each day I wasbrought face-to-face with an anonymousbuilder from the past, and each day Igrew to respect their talents and recog-nize their limitations.

Studying the fate of old pieces can be areal eye-opener. Some succeeded, but manydid not. Whether you're building periodreproductions or the most avant-gardepieces, the same enduring principles applyif you want your work to be used and to last.

Fake, Fraud, or Genuine? would havecleared up a lot of mysteries for me aboutthose antiques, though. It's an indispensa-ble guide to anyone who wants to learnfrom those who have gone before.

The Adventure of the Pilgrim's Chair

BY TOM CASPAR

FR

OM

TH

E C

OL

LE

CT

ION

OF

TH

E H

EN

RY

FO

RD

11516_LookingBack_F:Woodwork Front Matter 1/14/09 11:11 AM

Th

e sensu

ous fu

rnitu

re and

sculp

ture of M

ark Levin

are the p

rodu

cts of more th

an th

irty years’ mastery

of the process of stack-lamin

ated carving. T

he techniqu

ew

as explo

red b

y the scu

lpto

r Isamu

No

guch

i in th

e1940s an

d p

ut W

end

ell Castle’s fu

rnitu

re on th

e map

inth

e 1960s. Levin, w

orking in

the stu

dio he bu

ilt just ou

t-side San

ta Fe, is contin

uin

g the tradition

with

pieces likeSu

n V

alley Leaf Table, show

n h

ere, usin

g stack lamin

a-tion

to sculp

t works th

at are delicately lyrical, sexy, an

dvolu

ptu

ous.

“My w

ork,” says M

ark Levin

, “is an in

stinctu

alrespon

se to both natu

ral and m

an-m

ade forms that I fin

dp

leasing, fro

m n

uan

ces of th

e form

s of w

om

en, fru

it,flow

ers, leaves, and bu

tterflies to the sh

apes of autom

o-biles, m

achin

ery and arch

itecture. I start by delin

eating a

silhou

ette, visualizin

g the piece in

itially not in

wood bu

trath

er in a black, m

onolith

ic material. If th

e form h

as avisu

al impact in

this black dress it will be that m

uch m

oreallu

ring flesh

ed out in

wood.”

Levin w

orks prim

arily in ch

erry, map

le, waln

ut, an

dm

ahogany. Stack-lamin

ation is in

credibly labor-inten

sive.It requ

ires careful m

achin

ing of m

ating su

rfaces, gallons

of glue, forests of clam

ps, and seriou

s protection from

thed

ust storm

s of grind

ers and

sand

ers; but for L

evin, th

eresu

lts reward all th

e wear an

d tear on h

is tools and h

isbody. H

is furn

iture h

as garnered n

um

erous aw

ards and

is regularly exh

ibited at th

e coun

try’s most p

restigious

shows, m

ost recently at SO

FA C

hicago. To see more of his

work, look at h

is website, w

ww

.marklevin

.com.

—G

lenn Gordon

11517_BackCover_F:yellow copy 2 1/14/09 11:12 AM Page 1

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