More than a mecca to the aspiring woodworker, the North Bennet Street School– lying a few steps from Old North Church (“one if by land, two if by sea”) in Boston’s historic North End neighborhood–operates as a veritable university of innovative training programs across eight different craft disciplines. The school draws students from across the country and around the globe to study violin making and repair, bookbinding, piano technology, jewelry making and repair, preservation carpentry, carpentry and locksmithing. But the cabinet and furniture making program remains one of the school’s most renowned and popular offerings.
The main campus is housed in an early 19th century brick building that was once a church and then a sailor’s retirement home. A main building and three attached smaller buildings make up the school’s main facility. A secondary campus nine miles away houses the carpentry and preservation carpentry programs.
Applications to the school are perennially robust, and the admission process is selective. Low student-to-teacher ratios are the norm. From an average student body of just 170, the school graduates roughly 90 trained craftspeople per year from its full-time programs. North Bennet Street also offers 150 part-time workshops in the fall and spring that run from one to twelve weeks long.
The school’s approach to teaching relies on the apprenticeship system of learning. Practical projects are the main focus, and students take on increasingly difficult work as their training progresses. The approach is particularly effective with fine woodworking–each project builds on previous learning and requires the student to solve more complex problems. Certainly, there are lectures and suggested reading material, but the practical application of lessons at the bench is the program’s most important element. Lessons learned through experience are not easily forgotten.
This teaching approach has remained at the core of the school’s mission since its founding in 1885 by Boston philanthropist Josephine Agassiz Shaw. Opened during a time when waves of European immigrants were entering the U.S., the fledgling school sought to teach the arriving children specific employment skills. Industrial training, together with North Bennet Street’s related programs of English classes, lectures and reading clubs, offered ways to assimilate immigrants into the world of work and into America’s traditions, customs and behavior.
Today, the school continues to thrive as one of the country’s leading institutions devoted to the instruction and preservation of craftsmanship. The North Bennet Street School celebrates the 125th anniversary of its founding in 2010.

By: Manya Chylinski

Lance Patterson is a bit of an enigma. His colleagues and students at Boston’s North Bennet Street School seem to think they don’t know the real Lance, who doesn’t spend much time socializing. But they’re the people who know him best. Woodworker, teacher, brilliant craftsman–that’s the real Lance. He just happens to be a shy, modest man with a soft voice.
For a generation of furnituremakers trained there, North Bennet Street is synonymous with Lance Patterson. Since its establishment in 1885 as a trade school, North Bennet Street has gained a worldwide reputation as one of the premier schools for traditional crafts. It’s been Lance’s domain for the past three decades.

1. Lance with homemade airplane, c. 1960.

When you first meet Lance, it’s clear that he’ll be a difficult man to get to know if you don’t understand or care much about woodworking, because that’s the language he speaks. Ask him about his personal life and you’ll get a short answer that quickly turns into a detailed story about a woodworking project or an anecdote about one of his students. Woodworking and working with his hands are his passions, and pretty much have been his whole life.
As a teenager, he designed and built radio-controlled model airplanes (1). He has focused on projects like this and on keeping himself busy ever since. “In my childhood,” he says, “I never understood kids who said they didn’t have anything to do. I always had way too much to do.” As a young man, Lance had brief stints repairing furniture and painting signs, but nothing seemed to fit quite right. It wasn’t until the age of 33 that he finally pursued his dream to become a serious woodworker.

In 1977, Lance decided he wanted to study at North Bennet Street, because of the school’s reputation for excellence. His aim was to enter the piano technology program, but he lacked any meaningful experience in the field. To improve his chances, he ordered a harpsichord kit and built the instrument. That wasn’t enough to get accepted, but it did get him into the cabinet and furnituremaking program.

2. Design (1975); India ink on bristol board; 20" x 20".

The first part of the program was, and still is, about drafting—learning how to draw a piece before building it. “I was the slowest one in the drawing room,” Lance says. He clearly had an aptitude for this work: Lance also spent time creating incredibly precise and patterned freehand drawings, which still hang in his shop (2).

Getting accepted at North Bennet Street School was a turning point in Lance’s life. “I finally found a place that cared about doing good work, rather than just getting it done,” he says. Lance graduated in 1979 and worked at the school as the afternoon shop guy. He taught machine maintenance and kept the shop open so students could work on their projects. That same year, he started working in a shop of his own—what would become Fort Point Cabinetmakers—making furniture for clients. In 1981, North Bennet hired him to teach full time. “They said they’d keep me on for one year and see how it worked out,” he says with a smile. Twenty-eight years later, he’s still there, serving as a teacher and mentor to students who talk about him with awe and respect.

3. Queen Anne Highboy (1995); curly maple, white pine; 78" x 42" x 23"

“The most amazing thing about Lance is his wealth of knowledge,” says Erin Hanley (student 2005-2007). “He knows everything there is to know about traditional furniture construction. But he also knows about the politics of the time, and about its music and art, too.” When you ask Lance a simple question, you’ll get an essay. Lance is a true lifelong learner. He’ll teach himself whatever is necessary to make a project a success. Once he has a handle on something—say, a new technique or skill—he’ll strategize ways to make it better. And he encourages that search for knowledge among his students. “I love seeing them succeed. I love working with people who are willing to try,” Lance says.

4. Boston Bombe Chest (1979); mahogany, poplar; 39" x 32" x 20"

A brief list of some things Lance has done in addition to teaching and making furniture bears out his love of learning–and of keeping himself busy. He taught himself to play the piano and plays hymns, ragtime, and classical music. He plays the musical saw, and has performed with it at the school’s annual Christmas party and the wedding of a former student. He found a violin in the dumpster outside of his apartment, fixed it up, and taught himself how to play it. And, when he was disappointed with the quality of photos of student projects taken by professionals, he taught himself large format photography. Now he’s the official photographer for student work at the school.

Lance is so focused that he often gets on a run, concentrating on one type of furniture or one specific aspect of a machine. For a while, he built a series of stringed folk instruments, such as mountain dulcimers. Another time he made miniature steam engines. Right now it’s clocks—like the banjo clock that hangs on the wall of his shop or the Gabon ebony grandfather clock he made for the school’s President and former student, Miguel Gómez-Ibáñez (7).

7. Longcase Clock (2007), claro walnut burl, holly, brass; 89" x 19" x12".

5. Thurston Blanket Chest (1989); quartered red oak, cedar; 44" x 21" x 19".

Lance approaches each furniture project with an eye for how to modify the traditional design and make it work for contemporary times. “I don’t like to make an exact copy of anything,” Lance says. “Often, time has shown a better way to make a piece.” For example, older chairs may need modifying because the seat height is too low or the back too straight. Making sensitive modifications takes a practiced eye and a talented hand. “There are very common mistakes on certain styles of furniture–things that don’t necessarily improve the design or function,” says Lance. The closest Lance gets to admitting preferences? He isn’t fond of rococo. He does, however, like the William and Mary style, because of its exuberant turnings and carvings and use of space. “It’s visually interesting and fun to make.”

6. Spinning Stool (1989); red oak; 42" x 18" x 20".

Understanding furniture history is an important part of who Lance is. Early in his tenure at North Bennet Street, the school’s library had only one book: Wallace Nutting’s Furniture Treasury. Today, the library is filled with books and is one of the best woodworking libraries in the country. As his students will tell you—the library grew, at least in part, because of Lance and his interests. And he’s probably read every book in there, cover to cover.

8. Queen Anne Writing Table (1986), cherry, Carpathian elm burl; 36" x 28" x 22".

Tools, especially simple ones, also fascinate Lance. He enjoys making his own tools and grinding his own knives. He loves using one of the most basic hand tools: the card scraper. “I can feel it and control it,” he says. “It’s tiring on my hands, but I like the physicality of it, the workout of it. I like being tired at the end of the day.” Gómez-Ibáñez says, “He’s an expert craftsman, especially skilled with hand tools that are no longer in common use and techniques no longer commonly done. But he’s not stuck in the past—he loves to find more efficient ways to do things. And he’s an inspiring teacher because of his love for the subject.”

9. William and Mary Sideboard (1984), bird's eye maple, poplar; 72" x 35" x 21".

10. Music Stand (1996); walnut, walnut burl, holly, brass; 42" x 18" x 18".

Lance is not a chatty man or someone who is easily distracted. His colleagues and students understand that it’s his focus–a dedication to making each project the best it can be–that is the true measure of his talent. If you meet Lance Patterson you’ll find a shy, private man who doesn’t quite realize how loudly his actions speak about the incredible person he is.

Attn: John Everdell (2007) Cedar, pine, cherry, fir, sapele, fabric, brass, steel 60 x 32 x 22

BY YOAV LIBERMAN

This story is about the evolution of a project, from its infancy as a pile of scrap lumber (1) and some very vague ideas about how it is supposed to look and be built, to its maturity as a cohesive creation that stands firmly on all four legs.

Pile of Scrap Lumber

Most of my projects are based on found resources, old and new. As a chef creates his meal based on the ingredients of the season, I meld the pieces I’ve acquired to create a completely new and interesting piece that pays homage to the individual history of its ingredients.

It all began when a shipment of dark brown claro walnut, lumber for a massive dining table, arrived from California at John Everdell’s studio. In my opinion, John is one of America’s greatest woodworkers (see “What’s in a Name,” page 50). The crating that encapsulated this beautiful lumber was quite the opposite of the stuff that it carried: the boards were dusty, wrinkled, cracked and flaky. In fact, some of them were falling apart. After John broke open the container and extracted the walnut, he placed the crating boards into the dumpster.

I’m a strong advocate of using recycled materials and discarded wood in art and design; as such, most of my pieces are made from rejected wood or abandoned items, found on the street or in recycling facilities. So when I noticed the irregular cedar boards in the dumpster of my mentor’s woodshop, I was immediately intrigued by the complex texture and character of the wood; I was fascinated by its cracks and checks, different hues and earthy appearance.

My colleagues, friends, and customers know that I am an avid dumpster diver (2). So when I noticed the discarded boards, I immediately sensed that their mission had not yet ended, and rather than being burnt, crushed or buried, perhaps a better fate awaited them. Close examination of the boards revealed an interesting surface texture mimicking dry desert mud, earth colors and traces of dehydrated fungi, or perhaps a plant. I did not yet know what kind of piece I was going to build from them, but I recognized their potential. I was even more pleased when I saw that one of the broken boards still bore the shipping and return addresses rendered in black ink—I immediately decided that regardless of what I was going to build from this wood, these addresses would remain visible.

Dumpster Diving

When I find an interesting object or an attractive piece of rejected lumber (attractive, to me, anyway), I first store it for some time, not only to let it acclimate to the shop’s climate, but also to let it ripen; similar, in a way, to how we treat wine or parmesan cheese. This ripening allows me to see the object differently, so I can discover its new destiny. Of course, ripening takes time and storage space. Sometimes these treasures stay on the shelves in my cramped studio for years.

A few months after I found the cedar boards, I spotted a pile of discarded drawers (3). Constructed of pine and finger-jointed, these shallow drawers bore brass plaques declaring what they used to carry: specimens from the famous Harvard collection of insects, rocks and fossils.

Discarded Drawers

I try not to repeat myself. I like the thrill of discovery, the fun of sketching, and the problems presented by the intrinsic nature of working with random yet limited resources. I have to negotiate the look, volume and function of each piece with the materials I have to work with. These constraints challenge me to play a mental game of mix and match, to achieve the most pleasing outcome.

I had always wanted to build my own version of a highboy. For complexity and historical resonance, highboys are perhaps the ultimate achievement for a cabinetmaker (Eric Grant’s Chippendale Bonnet-Top Highboy appears on page 20). For some time, I’d considered building a highboy from discarded metal drawers that I had found in the dumpster of the physics department (4). However, when I saw the abandoned wooden trays and remembered that I had the intriguing cedar boards in the shop, I knew that my first highboy would be built from them. Immediately, I started thinking about how to incorporate them in my grand scheme.

Highboy Sketch, using discarded drawers

The highboy, or tall chest of drawers, reigns supreme among American furniture designs, mainly because of its immense size, elegance and impressive presence. Although the highboy originated in Queen Anne’s England, it reached aesthetic heights in the New World. This visual legacy informed the conceptual framework of my highboy.

I had drawers for my highboy and lumber for the case. But most of its overall design—the scale and proportions, the base section, the pediment, the hardware and color—was still undetermined.

Most of my raw materials are objects that I’m inexplicably drawn to, either because they exude a sort of integrity or because I am saddened to see them abandoned—I’m especially inspired by the hidden potential in objects that have become redundant. I sketch, contemplate, and sketch some more, in order to design new elements that reincarnate the discarded items I find into something new, functional, and aesthetically interesting.

Factoring the amount of cedar lumber with the number and size of the drawers would govern the size of the upper cabinet—but there weren’t enough drawers to include some in the base. That meant my highboy’s base would be a simple stand comprised of legs and aprons.
Recently, I’ve been building furniture that can be knocked down, folded or disassembled, due to my fondness for the compact, portable furniture that was designed to be easily transported by scientists, explorers and military personnel. I also enjoy devising new fastening techniques and new types of dedicated hardware for this furniture. As a cabinet on a stand, my highboy was a perfect candidate for a knock-down style base.

The 19th century saw the golden age of campaign furniture, which is beautifully catalogued in Campaign Furniture: Elegance Under Canvas, 1740-1914, a splendid compilation of information, illustrations, and images of furniture pieces designed to travel the world. Also known as “camp” or “nomadic” furniture, this style is the forefather of most Ikea furniture and its clones. Although primarily built for Europeans, campaign furniture was commonly found throughout Africa and India. Originally, campaign furniture was used in tents or temporary lodging; only later did it find tenure in the mansions and palaces of Empire officials.

It seemed natural for my highboy to have a tent overhead. One of my sketches included a red canopy (5). While pondering the tent theme, I remembered that, years ago, I had found a bunch of Boy Scout scarves on the street (6). Consequently, I contemplated incorporating the red scarves in the piece. One drawing pictured a quilt of scarves draped on top and around the highboy. I scotched this idea, because the red quilt was just too dominant. I also decided the scarves wouldn’t compliment the overall color scheme I’d decided on—“soldier blue” milk paint. I concluded that a plain-looking, linen canopy would be the best.

Red Canopy Sketch

The case
I started by resawing the inner faces and edges of the weathered boards, to create even surfaces for jointing—and to protect my jointer. After jointing, I glued the boards together to make the parts for the case. I cut lock-rabbet-style corner joints and installed the drawer glides before gluing the components together (7). Each drawer received a new false front, made from the remnants of the cedar boards (8).

Installing Drawer Glides

Manufacturing the False Fronts

The diverse coloration and sensational texture of the boards I’d rescued was so interesting, they deserved to be exposed, rather than removed or hidden (9). When lumber is transformed into boards and parts for furniture, it’s typically peeled, cut, smoothed and finished. I wanted to show that sometimes this process is actually unnecessary, because the beauty is already there—on the natural surface.

Exposed Found Textures

The base
In 2003, I built a bed frame with knock-down legs. They attached by means of a two-way bolt-reinforced miter joint that I designed. The rails were pushed tightly into a wedged corner that registered them square to the leg, which mounted inside the rails; two lag screws locked the joint. This joint proved to be very strong. I hadn’t seen anything like it before, so I decided to explore it further in my highboy. My goal was to create a novel joint that was visually compelling, by reducing the number of fasteners.

Most builders prefer to hide joints and fasteners, even in this neo-Arts and Crafts era. Like earlier craftsmen, however, I prefer to expose and celebrate them.

After numerous sketches of joints (10), I settled on design using a decorative eye-bolt that threaded into an insert sunken into the legs. Trapezoidal grooves machined in the rails match profiles cut in the legs (11). Tightening the eye-bolt wedges the rails against the legs (12).

Joint Sketches

Joint Sketches

Joint Sketches

Trapezoidal grooves machined in the rails match profiles cut in the legs.

Tightening the eye-bolt wedges the rails against the legs.

As I was working out the joint details, I was also sketching leg profiles. I eventually settled on a two-sided tapered leg with a tall spade foot—but I decided to present it unconventionally, just like the wood on the case.

The details
Like the finest highboys, mine has turned finials. But my finials aren’t just decorative. They support the linen tent that serves as the pediment. Look closely and you’ll see that the finials are turned to resemble the wooden bobbins that once were used in industrial looms (13).

Turned finials resemble wooden bobbins used in industrial looms.

After discovering that I wasn’t very good at sewing, I asked my talented friend and fellow artisan Leslie Hartwell to fabricate the tent (14). Simple bail pulls adorn the drawers; salvaged tool chest handles were the perfect “campaign endorsement” for the case.

Fabricating the Tent

Epilog
As studio furniture makers we wear several hats. Sometimes we merely execute functional designs that will fulfill their duties honestly and diligently. Sometimes we’re allowed the creative freedom to marry form and purpose. And sometimes, we set sail into the uncharted waters of art and creativity, striving to create sculpture that functions as furniture, or at least appears to be functional, so it can be categorized as “sculptural furniture.”
When I saw the writing on the distressed cedar boards (15)—the address of a man I respect so much, and in whose shop I’ve had the privilege to work—I knew they presented a meaningful artistic and creative opportunity. I felt very strongly that I needed to reinvent those boards in a way that would honor this inspirational artist and the time I’ve spent working under his guidance.

caption

What’s in a name?

John Everdell

Attn: John Everdell is named after my mentor and friend, John S. Everdell, one of America’s greatest cabinetmakers. John’s splendid designs are deeply anchored in the Arts and Crafts vocabulary, informed from details found in Chinese furniture and refined with themes present in Greene and Greene aesthetics. John is a great innovator of joinery details. His repertoire of expressed joints includes many from Gustav Stickley’s palette. But John has devised and grafted many more, including furniture legs combined from wood and cast brass, tied together with unique connections. He is also a great “wood painter.” By this I mean he is able to assemble a harmonious piece from a collage of parts—different species, dark and pale, flatsawn, quarterswan, spalted, curled—you name it. It was in his shop that I discovered the beauty of heart pine, the attractive characteristics of pear, and the wonders of claro walnut. And it was the remains of his packaging crate that triggered this piece.

Artist, author, teacher, editor, and all-around renaissance man Terry Martin in his shop.

BY KEVIN WALLANCE

Terry Martin is a craftsman and sculptor, writer and critic, teacher and student in the field of wood art. He is a man who constantly changes hats, doing what he can to document and promote a field in which he is also a player. It is not an easy route to take, particularly since he lives in Australia, some distance from where he is often published, exhibited, or invited to talk and teach at wood art forums around the world. Because he so much enjoys being part of the international scene, Terry Martin is also a world traveler. “It’s a wonderfully unlikely outcome of the woodturning renaissance,” he says, considering the good times he’s had. “There are years when I go several times around the world, stopping in different countries and staying with friends.” Martin finds that there is no pleasure to compare with finding common ground that spans cultures.

Having devoted much of his life to learning languages, he has enjoyed introducing himself to Japanese woodturners in their own language, demonstrating in Austria while bantering with the crowd in German and telling bad jokes in French while teaching in the workshop of his good friend Jean-François Escoulen.

Terry Martin has always been restless and has had a wide range of careers, from stage managing the Royal Ballet in London to mineral exploration in the jungles of New Guinea. Twenty years ago, when he returned from his travels to settle in his native Australia, his increasing concern over urban sprawl and the heedless destruction of old-growth forests led him to begin planting seedlings on weekends. In the early 1980s he discovered woodturning, which was in the midst of tremendous growth and change. It was a field that offered enough variety and excitement to capture his imagination.

Untitled Vessel (2001)

Like many who work on the lathe, Martin’s initial interest was in creating bowls and hollow forms. His approach was simple—to create a good line and to reveal the distinct qualities of the wood. Recent works, such as his “Untitled Vessel” in jarrah burl, still demonstrate this approach, with beautifully finished exteriors juxtaposed with the tool marks within and attention to detail in the carved foot. Yet, this sort of simplicity has not been common in his work over the last decade. Having reached the point where he could make several good bowls in a day, Martin quickly became bored and began to investigate other approaches. His eventual move to more sculptural work was a result of both his own desire for challenge and growth, and the influence of cutting-edge work being created by other wood artists in the late 1980s and early 1990s. The transition to sculptural work seemed to take him by surprise. “I had never suspected that I had a good 3-D imagination and I was very surprised at how easily the ideas flowed,” he says. “I have never had any shortage of ideas, and it took me a while to realize that is just what most people have problems with.”

Splash (1999)

“Terry Martin follows the beat of his own drum with the unique approach and vision he has for sculptural works in wood,” explains Ray Leier of del Mano Gallery, which represents the artist in Los Angeles. “Combining lathe turning with hand carving, his pieces reflect his constant desire to break new ground. Both his ‘Splash’ series and his ‘Cyclops’ series show that he is not content to produce another vessel form. Each piece he creates speaks loudly of his quest for diversity. Known equally as well for his writing as he is for his work in wood, Terry Martin has been an international spokesman for this burgeoning field.”

Huon Dream (1994); Huon pine

Huon Dream #1 (side view), 1994. Huon Pine

Huon Dream #1 (top view), 1994. Huon Pine

“Huon Dream #1” was one of Martin’s early attempts to escape “the tyranny of the circular form.” It is also an example of his use of texture in the carved area of the work to create contrast, as well as a seamless blending of the carved and turned areas. For the artist, it is also “…one in the eye for the perfectionists who believe all turned work has to be perfectly sanded,” although the effect takes considerably more work than sanding would. “I use a rotary burr and, to assure smooth facets, I have to keep in mind the direction of the grain with every cut,” he explains. “Also, every facet has to blend with the others in size, depth, and frequency, and this takes time.”

Parallel to this period of transition for Martin, there has been an on-going debate about the new directions woodturning has taken. He feels this has little to do with the craft itself and a great deal to do with personality types. “Certain types of people are attracted to certain activities,” he explains. “It takes a particular type to stand at a lathe and copy all day, never producing a new idea. Thank goodness there are such people, but it’s not for me.” Although Martin loves to break boundaries and defy tradition, this by no means implies that he is disrespectful of it. In fact, he loves researching and writing historical articles on turning, and appreciates the skills of the old masters. Yet he doesn’t believe that, just because it was done a particular way in the past, it should always be so, and he feels sad about the fact that the debate still continues. “I have never met an ‘artistic’ turner who did not respect the skills of the old masters,” he says, “but I have met many self-proclaimed ‘traditional’ turners who express contempt for wood art. I think it says a lot about their personality and very little about wood art.”

Hot Lips (1992), celtis, acrylic

Sum and Substance (1996), acacia burl, bronze

Vessel In A Box (1998), Huon pine

Terry Martin has taken to expanding the language of the vessel form with multi-media and sculptural approaches. Following the dictum that one should make the most of accidental possibilities, he used red paint to outline a fracture that appeared while blowtorching a vessel to create “Hot Lips.” In “Sum and Substance” he utilized bronze, a prized medium in the fine arts, to create a statement about revealing and exposing the heart of the vessel and the tree. His “Vessel in a Box” marked a transition into making the vessel part of a larger sculptural statement in which the form is both enclosed and revealed, trapped and celebrated.

Having fully embraced the new aesthetic of wood art, Martin says that he felt a true sense of liberation. “Once you make the decision that a piece is not meant to be used, all the restraints of function are removed, so why not be as adventurous as you want? It is the letting-go that makes the difference. It did not just happen to me, but to woodturning as a whole. I was initially just swept along and then started swimming my own stroke.”

While the creative experience is quite different, Martin finds making vessel forms and sculptural work equally rewarding. In the case of the vessels, he is able to make use of his well-practiced technical mastery and aesthetic. The sculptural work, however, requires more of him—there is more exploration and challenge. “I am less often satisfied with my sculptural work, which shows I am on less secure ground,” he explains. “I like that, as I know I am still growing.”

Caged Cyclops (2000), Tasmanian myrtle

Cyclops #1 (1996), Macassar ebony

Often working in series, Terry Martin has spent years exploring the “Cyclops” as a sculptural form. Growing out of the idea of a purely non-functional vessel, or what he describes as a “vessel for light and air,” the remnants of the container take the place of the beast’s eye at the center of the work. The enclosed area is turned through, so that the sense of containment now becomes one of passage. In the case of “Cyclops #1,” the piece suggests a creature, while in “Caged Cyclops,” passage is offered through tangled, complex surroundings. The “Emerging Cyclops” suggests a vessel form being revealed within a chunk of wood. It also shows how the series was born out of ideas of the vessel, mass, and a more sculptural perspective.

“Hokucyclops” (2000); jarrah burl; H: 20".

“Just Do It Cyclops” in red gum is an exercise in lifting the central form up as lightly as possible and is perhaps the best piece in the series. “Hokucyclops” is an excellent example of the ways Martin draws from a wide range of interests in creating a work. The title of the piece makes reference to Hokusai, a Japanese woodblock printmaker. The image is drawn from one of Hokusai’s most famous works, in which a frantically rowing fisherman is overwhelmed by a giant curling wave, which frames a serene view of Mt. Fuji in the distance. As Martin enjoys word games, he was delighted that the “sai” in the artists name is pronounced in the same manner as the “cy” in cyclops, leading to the title “Hokucyclops.”

A Matched Pair of Drinking Vessels (1992), red gum

Martin realizes that his work is quite unlike much of what is being done in the field of woodturning, and doesn’t feel the need to justify his work to anyone. “If they don’t like it, they don’t have to buy it,” he says. “In fact, I just want to enjoy what I do, so a lot of my pieces are about fun.” He particularly enjoys challenging preconceptions through his work. This spirit is exemplified by Martin’s “A Matched Pair of Drinking Vessels,” which pokes fun at the rules some woodturning competitions are built around. He submitted them to a competition to test the reaction of the jurors. As he’d expected, they were rejected and when Martin inquired why, was told, “because they are not finished.” He feels this complete misunderstanding of what he was doing highlighted the difference between the wood art field and the more traditional way of thinking.

“Mother Cut Your Toenails” (1999); walnut; D: 21".

The artist’s sense of humor is also apparent in the piece titled “Mother Cut Your Toenails….” Martin enjoys watching people try to make sense of it, because there is no sense. The piece is just about having fun. “My father had a lot of phrases which he would burst out with when he was upset. I have no idea where they came from, but one was ‘Mother cut your toenails, they’re tearing all the sheets!’ What a hoot!” So, in reversal of the usual order, Martin decided to start with the title and then create the piece. For years he searched for an idea until Betty Scarpino gave him a wonderful block of walnut during his residency at the Wood Turning Center’s 1999 International Turning Exchange. He’d had an image in his mind for some time—a vegetable-like creature, creepy and twining—the kind of turned and carved piece that is the antithesis of traditional turned work. Because of the odd title, he carved a big toe on it and added a realistic toenail “just for fun.”

“Sweet Androgyne” (1997); ebony; H: 9".

Martin’s humor and preference for unusual titles is also apparent in “Sweet Androgyne.” Artists often create vessels with legs, so Martin decided it would be interesting to put real legs on a piece. The challenge came when he realized that, when creating a lower body, one must also create a crotch. “I’d never even carved real legs before,” he explains, “so I was not sure I could do genitals. Finally I decided to leave out the genitals and called it ‘Sweet Androgyne.’” The old barbershop-quartet song ‘Sweet Adaline’ came to mind and provided the inspiration for the title.

“Hold Me, Enfold Me” (1998); coolibah burl; H: 10".

A work such as “Hold Me, Enfold Me” communicates on many levels and Martin feels that it is the best piece he’s ever made. It is about revealing and uncovering what is in the tree, while at the same time protecting the environment. Martin enjoys creating pieces that raise questions regarding the process and, technically, this piece is about defying the lathe. The central vessel has obviously been turned, but how this was achieved is not evident. Surprisingly, most of the rest was also turned. When asked how, the artist says, “I never explain, but I enjoy provoking speculation. I get a buzz thinking of people trying to work it out.”

It’s possible to learn a great deal about an artist by considering who they most respect among their contemporaries and why. From the beginning, Martin found makers in the wood field eager to share their ideas and techniques. It was Lindsay Dunn, a prodigiously skilled Australian turner who he met in the early 1980s, who showed him that he could do almost anything in wood. Martin credits Dunn with inspiring him to become a professional turner. But the words of John Wooller, another Australian wood artist, rang most truly for the rebel in Martin: “When you are new in anything, hopefully you rapidly repeat everything that’s been done in previous centuries and then you go your own way.”

For Terry Martin, Mike Hosaluk is one of the greats because he is constantly exploring his medium and always inspiring others. “Mike showed me that it is okay to break all the rules and still create great work,” he says. Martin has always respected David Ellsworth, not only for his inspirational work, but “because he saw the potential of the medium so long ago.” Michael Peterson has also earned his respect as a true sculptor who “cherishes every piece.” “There is quite a list of people I admire,” Martin says, “but I am as much influenced by personality as what people make. I like the people who laugh and who enjoy a good drink with their friends. I suppose wood art is as much about attitude as it is about art, and the best artists are rebels.”

The other thread of Martin’s work is the enormous amount of writing he has done. In 1995, he produced his book Wood Dreaming about the woodturning movement in Australia. The book, which is now out-of-print and highly sought-after, introduced the incredible breadth of work that was being created there. Australia is a large country with the population thinly spread, so researching it required criss-crossing the country, visiting artists in remote forests, small farm towns, and major cities. In the process, as has been his experience in all of his travels, he made friends and found people creating bold new work in wood.

As a photographer, author, and editor, Martin is one of the figures responsible for documenting and promoting the field. He has written almost two hundred articles for magazines and journals in seven countries and is often called upon to act as a critic, a role he finds particularly challenging. “I am often less than satisfied with my own art, so who am I to comment on others’ work?” he asks. “Often I want to puncture pretentiousness, but I find myself holding back for fear that I might be thought pretentious in my own art. If I could convince people that in my own art I am usually just having fun, then I would feel more able to critique other work.” He explains further: “I see so much self-indulgence and pomposity, that I itch to tell it as it is. But part of the joy of the wood art field is that we all share so well, so I prefer to join in the positive side. I end up only writing about people I like and respect, which is easier anyway.”

Martin has always been strongly influenced by the trees themselves and recalls a conversation with another Australian wood artist, John Woollard, who held up a piece of planed, squared timber and said: “Look at this. All the surface is gone. All the aspects of treeness are gone!” It was a phrase that hit home for Martin, who tries to put some amount of “treeness” in every piece he makes. “I think trees are the most dignified living creatures on earth,” offers Martin, “yet many people still treat them with contempt.” He is convinced that it is possible to use wood without waste. “A wood artist will use less wood in a lifetime than a major newspaper will use in a day.”

“Mallee Dream” (1995); mallee burl; D: 14".

Terry Martin finds various ways to include “treeness” in a work. “Mallee Dream” is an early piece in which the natural beauty of the burl was left largely intact and used to elevate the bowl turned at its center. Another early piece, “Huon Dream,” reflects the artist’s interest in bringing out what is already contained in the wood. In this case, part of the original block was left intact and is again used to elevate the form. As is the case with much of Martin’s work, it also presents a mystery, as the vessel within was turned while remaining attached to the wood block.

This idea is closely related to the work of Aboriginal woodworkers, who he also greatly admires. Viewing the collections of Aboriginal art in Australian museums and visiting Aboriginal artists still working in the central Australian deserts, Martin was amazed by sensitivity, skill, and knowledge of the wood in their woodcraft. More importantly, he found that the wide range of artifacts, such as bowls, spears, and ceremonial objects, clearly spoke of the tree. It was this spirit that drove him to travel through Australia researching his book, and the idea continues to inform his work.

“Temple” (2001); jarrah burl; D: 22".“Bonsai” (2001); coolibah burl; H: 7".

“Bonsai” (2001); coolibah burl; H: 7".

The artist’s love of trees is perhaps most evident in his recent series of figurative pieces, in which the form reflects its source. “Temple” represents his idea that Jarrah forests are natural temples, with the rough exterior of the burl used to represent the forest canopy. In “Bonsai,” the sapwood is used to form the lighter colored leaves, to dramatic effect. In both of these pieces the usual working process is reversed. Normally, wood is worked from the outside towards the inner parts, but for these pieces the artist had to work from the inside towards the natural exterior, stopping when only a fragile shell was left.

It is difficult to say for certain where Martin’s restlessness and varied interests will take him next, though I hope he will continue exploring and expanding the field of wood art. Entering the field during an exciting period of growth, he has become part of its continuing change and expansion. He is an advocate of many approaches to wood art, but most importantly he speaks for the material itself. Terry Martin has a childhood memory of a favorite place in a hollow at the top of a lightning-blasted tree. From there he would survey his world, pretending he was lost in a sea of trees. Now, working in wood, he has found a place which offers similar joy and an equally vast horizon. From this vantage point Martin clearly sees the potential which wood art offers, and enjoys helping others share his view. “Come up here,” he seems to be saying. “Look at what I can see!”

Kevin Wallace is an independent curator, consultant, and writer in the field of craft art.

This article originally appeared in the  April 2003 Issue of Woodwork magazine.

BY TERRY MARTIN

Despite the notion that the woodworking life is very romantic, full of sweet-smelling plane shavings in a peaceful workshop, for many the reality is dusty, noisy and sometimes tedious work. Yet many of us became woodworkers in pursuit of an idealized lifestyle. When I recently visited Grant Vaughan, I was impressed to see just how close he has come to the kind of life many dream of.

To reach Grant’s home I travelled along back roads through peaceful green valleys in the northern border country of New South Wales, Australia. The roads became narrower and steeper as I reached Grant’s valley. Just before the turning to Grant’s house I discovered Rock Valley Post Office, the smallest in the Southern Hemisphere (1). I stopped to talk to the volunteer Postmaster, Ian, who told me the valley is populated by a mix of traditional farmers and relative newcomers who came in pursuit of an alternative lifestyle. Ian used to be a fireman in Sydney; now he grows native limes in the next valley over. I mentioned Grant’s name and Ian looked at me with increased interest. “Grant’s famous around here,” he told me.

I first became aware of Grant’s work in the late 80s when the Sydney Opera House hosted a landmark exhibition of work by members of the New South Wales Woodworkers Guild. It was the first time woodwork had been shown in that prestigious venue, and it raised the public profile of many of the exhibitors. Grant showed a bowl of carved Red Cedar (4). The piece was completely different from the turned wooden bowls that were flooding the Australian market at the time, and I remember thinking that I’d like to meet the artist. Twenty years later I finally did.

Grant’s house is hidden in subtropical rainforest at the end of a long, rough driveway that meanders across green fields. I emerged into a large clearing between his workshop and the house and Grant came out onto the wide veranda of his workshop (2) to greet me. We settled in the shade with a cold drink. The valley echoed with bird-song and as the shadows lengthened, wallabies came down to eat the grass within a few yards of us (3). Grant’s life is in many ways a typically Australian story: “I was born in the country in 1954. We lived in different towns and I had a lot of experiences that prepared me for life here. When I finished high school I did a year of engineering at university, but I soon decided I didn’t like that. I switched to architecture and nearly finished two years, but like a lot of people at that time, I dropped out of school. In 1973 a big Aquarius Festival was held not far from here and I came up for it. Eventually I joined others who were dropping out and moving here to start a new life on the land.”

Soon Grant bought 85 acres of that land. “It was pretty bare with only a few of the original forest trees left,” he said. “The land was pretty degraded. We were talking about global warming and things like that thirty years ago! The problem was that nobody was listening, so we got tired of talking about it. I thought it would be good to let at least this bit of land go back to forest. The neighbors thought I was nuts. Even when I planted a few trees they thought I was crazy as they’d spent their lives cutting down trees. Funny, but now it’s probably worth more as forested land than when it was cattle property.”

A lot of the new arrivals didn’t know anything about living on the land, but Grant, having had some experience in the country, knew more than most. “I knew we couldn’t all grow lentils and survive on that. I always wanted to do something creative with my hands. Wood was the only accessible material, so I started experimenting. I bought a few tools and tried making coffee tables and cabinets. I didn’t realize that you have to allow for the expansion and contraction of the wood, so I glued the tops of my coffee tables to the frame with epoxy and of course they pulled themselves apart!” Gradually he mastered the tools, often by trial and error. “It was very frustrating, but I got help from a local craftsman who is a whiz with machinery. I picked it up really fast. It was simple: I asked, he showed me, and that was it.”

By the early 80s Grant had started to have success selling his furniture locally, making kitchens, dining tables and chairs. He began taking pieces to big craft shows in Sydney and soon had more orders than he could cope with. Grant started incorporating carving into his furniture to make it more interesting, and around this time he found a new direction. “I was sitting on the beach one day and thinking about carving something, so I took some clay from a headland and tried making a bowl. I remember a friend saying, ‘Grant, I like your furniture, but that looks terrible!’ I’m pleased to say that the Opera House bowl that got so much publicity was the same as that first clay bowl. I think I sold it for around $500, which doesn’t seem much now, but it was quite a lot in those days. Everybody loved it, particularly because it was so different from the huge number of turned bowls that were being made at that time. I carved it all the old-fashioned way with gouges and mallet. I thought it took too much time and I would never be able to make any money that way. I had a young child and I was the only earner in the family. So, to be practical, I started doing carved mirrors (5). I took deposits for fourteen mirrors at one show alone. In the end I got sick of them.”

In 1988, the Australian government was commissioning Australian artists to make furniture using indigenous woods for the new Federal Parliament House in Canberra. Grant’s solid reputation led to a commission for two document cases for the entrance to the Senate offices (6 and 7). They had to be sealed to control the interior environment for archival material. It was heady success, but not everybody appreciated the importance of such work, as Grant explains: “The day I delivered the tables, I was standing back looking at them with one of the architects. He was just saying how great they looked when a janitor came by with a huge ring of keys. Without even looking up from his clipboard, he threw the keys onto one of the tables and scratched the top! You’ve got to get used to what will happen to furniture in public places.”

Grant continued to get prestigious commissions from the government. On behalf of the Department of Foreign Affairs he did a wall mural 6 meters long and 2 meters high for the United Nations Conference Center in Bangkok. This led to a commission for a mirror for the Australian Prime Minister’s residence, the Lodge (8).

The mirror was not used as expected. “When it was delivered we had just had a change of prime ministers. Apparently the mirror ended up in the basement. It stayed there for the next two prime ministers’ terms and I heard nothing more about it. Recently, however, we saw an article in the newspaper about a carved mirror that had been discovered in the basement at the Lodge. Nobody seemed to know what it was, so I wrote and asked about it. I got a letter from the office of the current prime minister informing me that it is my mirror and that it is now finally hanging on the wall in the Lodge. That felt good.”

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.”

Toward the end of the 1980s Grant had become so successful as a furnituremaker that he says he “could have started mechanizing and taking on employees, but I didn’t want to spend my life as a machinist pushing wood through spindle molders. On top of that we had a recession and for the first time I did shows where nothing sold.” Surviving into the 90s on sales at a few Australian galleries and commissions from clients who kept coming back over the years, he devoted much of his time and energy to maintaining a professional approach, concentrating on good photography and clear presentation, and producing owner’s manuals for the proper care of his work.

4. Bowl (1983); Australian red cedar; 7″ × 15″ × 12″; collection of Forestry Commission of NSW.

5. Carved Mirror (1983); Australian red cedar; 31″ × 21″.

6. Senate Office Entry Display Cabinets (1988); Australian red cedar and red bean; 43″ × 55″ × 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″ × 70″ × 20″.

10. Desk [detail] (1992).

11. “Obovoid Form” (2002); Australian white beech; 17″ × 9″; collection of Roger Ford.

12. “Gesture of Balance #2” (2002); Australian white beech; 14-1/2″ × 14-1/2″.

13. Carved Form [detail] (2001).

14. “Ovoid Form” (2004); Australian white beech; 10″ × 16″ × 11-1/2″; National Gallery of Australia.

PHOTOS 1, 3, 4, 25, 26, 27 BY TERRY MARTIN. OTHER PHOTOS BY DAVID YOUNG, EXCEPT #6 & #7 BY MATT KELSO, #5 BY NICK POUTSMA, AND #2 BY PETER DERRETT.

Grant exhibited at SOFA (Sculptural Objects and Functional Art Fair) Chicago from 1999 to 2005, showing more carved work than furniture: “I took a table one year, but it was mostly my carved bowls. Furniture is never so easy to sell because people worry if it will fit in their home. They want to go home and measure, but the show only runs for a few days—and I live in Australia. Bowls are easier. I used to take around eight pieces. I kept going till ’05 and always had success, but since then I’ve backed off because it is such hard work selling so far from home and the costs are high. I still sell through some American galleries.” He goes on to say that “I want to do it on my own terms. I don’t want to chase my tail trying to get sales, so I don’t make many pieces per year. They all sell. It seems everything I make now is already promised to somebody. Recently I started selling into China and they want more.”

When you look at Grant’s entire body of work, it is possible to see how his furniture evolved into his carved bowls. Many of the legs on his furniture had delicately carved details (9) that evolved into folded, or rather unfolding naturalistic details that brought to mind the curling leaves of his forest, or the curl of the waves that he loves to surf (10). These ideas have often been reinterpreted in his bowls that appear to unfold in an almost erotic display of a secret interior (11).

15. Carved Form [detail] (2002).

16. “Continuity” (2005); Australian red cedar; 11″ × 22″ × 11″.

17. “Split Form #2” (2006); Australian white beech; 16″ × 16″ × 5″.

18. “Split Form #3” (2006); Australian red cedar, 13-1/2″ × 25″ × 5-1/2″; Collection of Raymond Wong.

19. Enfolded Form (2004); Australian rosewood, 24-1/2″ × 8″; Madhavi – Hong Kong.

20. Enfolded Form (2004).

21. “Reflection” (2005); Australian red cedar; 14″ × 26″ × 8″; Ron & Anita Wornick Collection, Boston Museum.

22. Crescent Form (2005); Australian rosewood; 13″ × 24″ × 5″.

23. “Split Form #6” (2008); Australian red cedar; 12″ × 12″ × 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.

Grant says, “In the early 80s buyers knew they just wanted something beautiful to look at, but they felt they had to ask, ‘What do we do with it? Do we put fruit in it?’ I had to meet their expectations to some extent.” His bowls and vase-like pieces often met this need for pseudofunction, but as he says, “In my mind, they were never functional.”

His work is always sensuous, delicate and evocative in a way that placed it in the category of unique art (12). Several of his pieces are in the collections of the most prestigious museums in Australia, including the National Gallery (13 and 14)

From the start, Grant says, “I wanted to be different. I recognized early that there is no way you can mass-produce this stuff if you want to stand out from the crowd. It’s very slow with lots of hand carving and sanding. With some pieces I have really created nightmares for myself.”

Grant continued to carve ever-finer bowls, emphasizing and enhancing the inner curves that complement the outer line (15 and 16). It was a foray into the inner world of the vessel and it soon led him into previously unexplored territory: “I cut away so much that it seemed logical to separate the two halves and work on them that way.” By working on the two halves separately and then rejoining them, Grant was able to make vessels that were clearly impossible to put things in. In a word, they were sculpture (17). There is a kind of wrapped effect when you look at these vessels, as if there is a vase contained inside delicately carved wings of wood (18).

The final step, one that in retrospect seems inevitable, was to leave the two halves separate, allowing them to stand together as pure sculpture, mated by their obvious fit, almost their need to interact (19 and 20).

Grant continues to call his sculptures “bowls,” a humble word to describe pieces that evoke a sense of exploration, a discovery of secret places both hidden and yet revealed (21). Each of these pieces is the result of a lifetime of careful development of design, technique, and thoughtful interpretation of nature (22 and 23).

It would be easy to imagine that Grant works as an intuitive artist, the pieces spontaneously springing from his mind and evolving as he carves. While there is no doubt that he is inspired, he is one of the most methodical woodworkers I have met. He draws each piece in detail before he makes it and then creates plywood templates that allow him to predetermine the cuts by drilling to depths indicated on the templates (24). “Doing it this way takes a lot of planning,” he says, “but it saves time later because I can cut at speed.”

When Grant had finished showing me how he works, we went for a walk in his forest. We stopped at a few giant trees and he explained how they were the sole survivors of the original bush. Not so long ago they would have been isolated, condemned to a slow death on increasingly leached and eroded land. Now they are surrounded by new forest and will probably live for hundreds of years. Later we sat on the veranda again (25) and as the light faded the forest came to life with the sounds of frogs and night birds. Grant proudly told me how he feels about his personal contribution to nature: “I think I was an advocate for the environment before most people got involved in all this. I can remember right back at school having roaring arguments with my father about the environment and supporting the development of national parks. I’ve always loved pristine places that haven’t been ruined by mankind. Also, I’ve always been conscious of where the wood I use comes from–whether it is sustainable or not. For a long time I’ve been using salvaged timber, wood that’s been left on the forest floor. Anyway, I use so little timber that it’s insignificant.”

The next day I drove home thinking about Grant’s life. As the traffic built up, the noise increased and the city soon loomed on the horizon. I couldn’t help feeling that Grant had achieved something really amazing. He is known and respected both at home and internationally for his wood art, but I think his greatest achievement is that he hasn’t had to give up his dream. My respect for that is enormous.

Grant Vaughan can be contacted at info@grantvaughan.com.au

Although I’m a professional furniture maker, not every piece that I build is an heirloom. In fact, I’ve discovered that designing attractive, durable pieces that can be built in a short amount of time can be just as satisfying as making fine furniture. I call these my “6/8” designs, because they can be finished in a day or over a weekend—in six to eight hours.

The table and bench shown here both fit this description of expedited building. Although they look completely different, their joinery—dowels reinforced with corner blocks—is identical. This simple joinery doesn’t get much attention these days, but the joints are easy to create and they’re very strong. I learned the technique from a shop near mine that specializes in building high-end upholstery frames. There, corner-blocked double-dowel joints are used exclusively, because they’ve proven to be both efficient and durable. As you can see from the two pieces shown here, you can make variations easily when you employ this versatile joinery. Just use your imagination.

A TAPERED LEG TABLE

Dramatically tapered legs give this large table a light and airy appearance, even though it’s built strongly enough to support three dozen orchids. I made the legs and aprons from construction grade Douglas fir 2×4 and 4×4 timbers that were left over from a remodeling job (the timbers had been stacked and allowed to dry for three months). The 4×4 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 save time, I rounded over the plywood edges, instead of gluing on edging. The primer and paint fills the grain.

My normal procedure for assembling table bases is to mill the stock, drill for the joinery and then shape the legs. I squared and planed the leg timbers to 3″ by 3″. After milling the 2×4 rails to 1-1/2″ thickness, I ripped them to final width. I used my radial arm saw to square the ends of all the pieces and cut them to length.

The one caveat with dowel joinery is that it requires precise layout and sharp brad point bits. I prefer to use a Veritas Sliding Square (#05N32.01) for marking (2), rather than the more familiar combination square. I outfit my drill press with a fence to drill the centered holes in the leg blanks (3). I use a doweling jig to drill the holes in the ends of the rails. The photo (4) shows my prized Stanley #59, which I found in an antique shop in Asheville, NC, but just about any dowelling jig will work. For the strongest joints, the dowels should extend at least twice their diameter into the wood on both pieces. The dowels for this table are 1/2″ dia., so all the holes are 1-1/16″ deep—the extra 1/16″ depth helps to ensure that the joint will close, by providing a cavity for excess glue. Whether using the drill press or the doweling jig, the key to success during this step is to locate the tip of the brad point bit with pinpoint accuracy.

PLANS AND PATTERNS

6/8 TABLES

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 the wrong way, I mark the outside corner on the bottom of each leg with an “x.” This corner is the only one that isn’t cut away during the tapering. The taper starts 1″ below the rail, a standard technique to allow for transition sanding to the rails. After drawing the taper on one face of each leg blank, I cut to the outside edge of the line. Then I mark the second taper on the sawn face, so the leg rests flat on the table when I make the cut (5).

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

Sand the legs and aprons with 100, 150 and 220 grit sandpaper. Carefully smooth the transition on the tapered faces, so the taper extends to the bottom of the rail. Complete the legs by routing 1/8″ chamfers around the bottom, to prevent tearing out the edges when the table is moved. Attach felt pads, if necessary, to protect your hardwood floor.

Before I start gluing, I test my joinery with “fitting dowels” (7 and 8). These dowels are carefully sawn halfway from each end, offset 90°, to make them springy and easy to remove. I use solid dowels for glueup—these dowels must be grooved or spiral-cut to allow excess glue to escape.

Gluing the table base together is a two step process. First I glue each short apron between two legs. Then I glue the long aprons between the two assembled ends (9). I start by installing the dowels in the aprons. Then I press on the legs. Seating each individual dowel is easy, but substantial forces come into play when pressing in six dowels, to create each end, or twelve dowels, to complete the base. I use Jorgenson “I” bar clamps for this job. Clamping pads between the legs and clamps are a must, to prevent dents in the wood.

Mitered corner blocks reinforce the joints and complete the base. I cut and notch these blocks on the bandsaw and disc sand them to fit. They’re glued to the rails and attached to the legs with #10 × 2-1/2″ flathead tapping screws.

I fasten the top to the frame with Knape & Vogt (KV) steel tabletop fasteners, which are available in several sizes from most hardware catalogs or commercial hardware dealers. The KV #320 (10, at left) is the best size for this table. These S-shaped fasteners slide into slots in the aprons cut with the biscuit jointer adjusted to the #20 setting. A router equipped with a 3/16″ slotting cutter works, too. The slot must be positioned so that screwing in the fasteners pulls the top to securely to the frame (11).

These fasteners are usually used with solid wood tops, to allow seasonal movement. Movement isn’t an issue here, because the top is plywood. I use them because they’re economical to buy and easy to install.

Before installing the fasteners, I dust them with spray paint, to keep them from rusting; here I used gloss black paint.

I finished this table base with three coats of clear waterborne polyurethane. In good drying conditions, I can apply all three coats in less than two hours. The top is satin latex paint. The painted-on socks visually ground the feet and add a touch of whimsey.

A TURNED LEG BENCH

I designed this small bench for a bathroom. Its columnar legs match the fixtures and its painted finish matches the bathroom walls and trim. The 3/4″ marine plywood top is impervious to moisture and plastic glides keep the feet dry. The cylindrical legs require only basic turning skills, using a roughing gouge, a skew and a beading tool, followed by sanding. My design creates a tight transition from the curved legs to the flat aprons. The joinery is the same as on the tapered leg table, although completing it requires a few additional steps.

Once again, milling the stock is the first step. Plane and square the leg blanks to 1-9/16″ billets (as the squared stock is called before joinery and shaping). Plane the aprons to 1″ thick and rip them to 2-1/2″. Square the ends of the billets and aprons and cut them to length.

Next, drill 1-5/16″ deep dowel holes in the legs and 1-1/16″ deep holes in the aprons. First, lay out the holes on adjacent faces of each leg. As before, the holes are always centered across the width. But because these leg blanks are smaller in section, there’s a problem: If the holes are drilled at the same location in each adjacent face, they’ll intersect, resulting in a weak joint. My solution is to offset the holes, higher on one face and lower on the other, so they don’t intersect. This creates another challenge: making sure that the offset holes drilled in the aprons match the offset holes in the legs. My solution for this issue is to lay out the dowel holes to create the legs in two mirror-image pairs. Then I orient the “high-hole” faces with the short aprons and the “low-hole” faces with the long aprons. As on the tapered leg table, I drill the leg holes on my drill press and the apron holes with my doweling jig.

At this point, I locate and mark the centers on both ends of all the legs, to facilitate turning; the centers must be marked before the next step is completed.

To create the transition from curved leg to flat apron, both joint faces of each leg are precisely notched to fit the aprons. First, I use a tenoning jig to cut the cheeks (12). Then I use the tablesaw to cut the shoulders (13). The completed notches measure 1/4″ × 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 lathe with the notched end at the tailstock, I use a spindle roughing gouge to turn the cylinder and calipers to gauge the diameter. Turning the notched end is no big deal; just maintain the same technique: keep the gouge firmly on the tool rest and apply light, steady cutting pressure. Stop the lathe to gauge the diameter. I switch to an oval skew chisel to make a final cleaning pass (15). It leaves a super-clean surface that requires minimal sanding. Turning the leg to a cylinder reduces the width of the notch faces—I aim for them to end up 1″ wide. I use a 3/8″ beading tool to create the foot and round the bottom. Light sanding completes the job.

	PHOTO BY SCHOPPLEIN.COM
	PHOTO BY SCHOPPLEIN.COM

From here on, the steps parallel the tapered leg table. I test-fit the joints (16). If an apron protrudes beyond the leg’s 1″ wide flat notches, I plane the apron’s outside face to make it flush. After gluing the aprons to the legs, I install the corner blocks (17). Then I fasten the top, using smaller KV #323 fasteners (10, at right).

As I said at the outset, completing a useful, well-constructed product in a short period of time is a worthwhile endeavor. After all, life is short and there are so many projects to build!

BY TOSHIO ODATE

PHOTOS: LAURE OLENDER

Toshio Odate apprenticed as a young woodworker in Japan during the 1940s. He moved to New York in 1958, became a renowned sculptor, and was instrumental in introducing America and Europe to the Japanese craft tradition, publishing the seminal work Japanese Woodworking Tools: Their Tradition, Spirit, and Use in 1984.

This article is a loose transcript of a lecture given at the 2008 Furniture Society Conference, in Purchase, New York. Toshio’s subject was “The Morality of the Craftsman.” To begin the talk, Toshio took a pair of shoes from a box and put the right shoe on the table.

I

Let me tell you a simple story about two shoes.

An art teacher had a very special class, consisting of six brilliant, skillful students selected from all over the country. One day, the teacher took off his right shoe and placed it on a high platform in the middle of the room. “Draw this shoe with pencil on paper 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 he was very satisfied. But he pointed once again to the shoe on the platform. “Now you are going to make this shoe as realistically as possible. You can use any material you wish.”

One student asked the teacher, “Can I make the left shoe instead of the right shoe?” The teacher thought the question a bit irregular, but permitted the student to do so. He gave the class two months to finish the project.

The time passed quickly, and on the appointed day everybody returned to the classroom. Five students had made their shoes in all kinds of materials: wood, stone, tin, copper, paper–you name it.

One student held back–the young man who asked to make a left shoe. The teacher asked him, “Where is your shoe?” The student pulled it out of a cardboard shoebox. His shoe was made of the same leather, had the same sole, featured the same stitching pattern, and was exactly the same size as the teacher’s right shoe. His father was a shoemaker! Both shoes were now a perfect pair.

II

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

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

Now, the left shoe, the one made by the student, that’s different. It may look identical to the right shoe, but it’s Art. It’s not made to wear. If the artist desired, he could have made his shoe any size, even 100 feet long. An artist finds his or her own point of view of life and creates objects that reflect it. Therefore, an artist’s social responsibility and obligation is to find a valid concept, execute it, then share it with society.

Often you cannot tell just by looking at an object if it is Art or 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 shoe on the table in front of me is Craft, and the left shoe in my hand is Art, I’m sure you would have been confused, and laughed. Now, I hope that this statement makes sense.

III

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

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

IV

My father was a Shokunin, a craftsman, and I was one, too. I grew up in a country that respects and cares for Shokunin. After I came to the United States I changed professions to become a teacher and sculptor, but I still maintained the pride of a Shokunin.

I’ve built most of my studio and worked on my house, but recently I required some carpenters to build a second-story floor in my studio. I asked a good friend to do the work, but he was too busy and instead sent two carpenters and one young man (an assistant or just a gofer? I never figured that out). They arrived in a pickup truck, coffee cup in one hand and cigarette in the other. I showed them the materials and the place to build the floor. The floor was 3/4″ thick, with 4×8 tongue-and-groove plywood on 2×8 joists. They knew what had to be done.

It was the first time in my life that I watched other craftsmen do work for me. When I was a Shokunin in Japan, I remember how much we valued having tea and a little snack at 10 in the morning 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, provided snacks and showed them my respect and appreciation. They stayed three days and finished the job. I thanked them from the bottom of my heart.

After the carpenters finished, the room below the new floor was very dark. Four weeks later I laid the first electric line and turned on one small light to lay more lines. I was very excited and happy. However, I looked up at the ceiling and noticed that a few nails had missed a joist. I thought to myself, “The carpenter just missed 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 more missed nails! I checked the whole ceiling, and found to my surprise that most nails had missed, joist after joist. I was getting angry, then became furious. I could not control my emotions. My sincerity 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 does it. It’s not a big deal! Call the carpenters, and they will return and fix the floor for you.”

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

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

He continued, “I know someone who recently hired a roofer. A couple of guys went to the job site, did their work, finished the roof and 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 shingles 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 know the nail gun well.”

My friend also suggested that I should call the carpenters and let 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-nailed the entire floor by hand.

V

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

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

In the 90s, organizations and sponsors of Craft shifted their interest toward the Fine Arts. Surviving craft centers, schools and museums were forced to lean toward the Fine Arts. Some of them even changed their names. At the same time, have craftsmen lost social trust and respect?

Yes, we have.

VI

Too often I have heard craftsmen say, “Trustworthy, beautiful materials and work are useless when customers do not understand or appreciate them. And they won’t pay!”

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

2008 Design in Wood Exhibition

DEL MAR, CALIFORNIA

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.

1.
CRAIG THIBODEAU
“Chess Table”
Macassar ebony, holly, bubinga
34″ × 25″ × 25″

2.
JOHN E. KETTMAN
“Boulle Marquetry Cabinet”
Tiger maple, Gabon ebony, Honduras mahogany
42″ × 23″ × 76″

3.
JOE DAMATO
“Clarion Angelfish with Sea Nettle Jellyfish”
Jelutong
19″ × 10″

4.
PAUL SCHURCH
“Sorghum Settee”
Urban claro walnut, poplar, maple, sorghum
35″ × 28″ × 74″

5.
RUSS FILBECK
“Ladderback Rocking Chair”
Curly maple, rosewood
45″ × 27″ × 43″

6.
LEO J. KILIAN III
“Under the Pier”
Padauk, ponderosa pine, poplar, purpleheart, teak, walnut, yellowheart, zebrawood
43″ × 30″

7.
BRIAN D. JACKSON
“Table Lamp with Shade”
Norfolk Island pine, mesquite
19″ × 16″

8.
OSCAR KIRSTEN
“Enclosed Vessel”
Claro walnut
16″ × 10″

9.
BRIAN K. CARNETT
“Kluwe Bedside Table”
Wenge, quilted maple
29″ × 15″ × 15″

10.
TOM THORNTON
“3 Drawer Jewelry Box”
Walnut, spalted maple, wenge
8″ × 13″ × 16″

500 Tables LARK BOOKS

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.

1.
STEPHEN WHITTLESEY
“Mandolin” (2007)
Salvaged oak, padauk, cherry
18″ × 80″ × 24″
Photo by Stephen Whittlesey

2.
JEFF WALLIN
“Tsunami Table” (2006)
Mild steel, rust patina
17″ × 48″ × 16″
Photo by Keith Cotton

3.
FLOYD GOMPF
“Wheeled Side Table” (2007)
Found wood, found wheels
29″ × 18″ × 13″
Photo by Richard Hellyer

4.
CRAIG NUTT
“Tomato Table” (1996)
Dyed and natural wood marquetry, oil paint
26″ × 23″ × 23″
Photo by Rickey Yanaura

ALL PHOTOS COURTESY OF LARK BOOKS, COPYRIGHT 2008

Currently available by pre-order, Lark Book's
500 Tables goes on sale in May.

5.
CHRIS BOWMAN
“Hey Series #1” (2006)
Catalpa, poplar, milk paint
25″ × 30″ × 8″
Photo by Chris Bowman

6.
BRENT HARRISON SKIDMORE
“Top Down Boo” (2003)
Plane tree, poplar, steel, acrylic paints
34″ × 57″ × 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″ × 19″ × 48″
Photo by John Bonath

8.
MARK S. LEVIN
“Pear Coffee Table with Drawer” (2007)
Australian lacewood, bubinga
16″ × 43″ × 30″
Photo by Margot Geist

9.
DAMON MCINTYRE
“Tea for Two” (2007)
White oak
42″ × 48″ × 16″
Photo by Damon McIntyre

BY KERRY PIERCE

A tablesaw equipped with a dado set is brutally efficient for cutting dozens of grooves, dadoes or rabbets. I tend to build just one piece at a time, though, so I rarely find myself faced with making such a large number of joints. More typically, I need dadoes for two or four shelves, and I turn to an old set of wooden dado planes. I also use antique wooden planes for cutting grooves and rabbets–I believe that all are useful in the modern shop. So too are their metal-bodied equivalents, which I’ll talk about in a future issue.

THE PLOW PLANE

There are three different kinds of square channels typically used in casework: the groove, which is plowed a distance from the edge in the direction of the grain; the rabbet, which is cut along the edge either with the grain or across the grain; and the dado, which is cut across the grain. There’s a specific plane best suited for each of these cuts.

The plow plane is the hand tool of choice for cutting grooves. Plow planes were typically equipped with a set of eight interchangeable irons graduated in 1/16″ increments from 1/8″ to 5/8″ (skipping 9/16″). Unfortunately, plows are almost never found with full sets of irons. I own about a dozen plows, and each one came to me with only a single iron. However, it is possible to buy loose irons from tool dealers and on eBay, and in that manner assemble a set. But I should warn you: Not all irons will fit all plows. The closest I’ve come to a full set is a group of five different irons for my Ohio Tool plow (1).

You may need to recondition an old plane before you can use it (see my article “Restoring a Wooden Plow Plane,” Woodwork #97, February 2006, p. 72), but they are simple tools to understand and adjust. In some plows—usually the English ones—the arms and fence are held in position by wedges tapped into tapered mortises cut in the sides of the arm mortises (2, rear). The arms and fences of early American plows are often held with thumbscrews (usually made of boxwood) passing down through the plane’s body to make contact with the fence arms (2, right). Later—and in my view, better—American plows are equipped with threaded screw arms, also made of boxwood. The arms pass through unthreaded mortises in the plow’s body (2, left and front). The fence is held in position by trapping the plane’s body between threaded boxwood washers and larger threaded boxwood nuts (3). In this photo, these parts are laid out in order of assembly.

A plow plane is fitted with a moveable depth stop that can be set to create grooves up to about 1″ deep. In photo 4, the depth stop is the metal shoe visible behind the skate. It’s raised and lowered by a brass thumbscrew on top of the plane and locked with a second thumbscrew on the plane body’s left side. Different plows have different styles of depth stops. The early American plow on the right in photo 3, for example, has a depth stop that’s a piece of boxwood friction-fit into a vertical throughmortise in the plane’s body.

A plow plane iron is quite heavy on the business end, 1/4″ or more, tapering to less than 1/16″ at the top of the tang. Sometimes the tang is snecked (a sneck is a metal tab that may be tapped with a hammer to adjust the iron). The iron is held with a tapered wedge and is typically bedded at 45° to 50°. Each iron has a groove milled into the center of its back that fits snugly on the plane’s metal skate (4). This arrangement stabilizes the iron.

Plow plane blades are sharpened like ordinary plane blades. You may have difficulty removing a stuck iron, though. Here’s how to do it: With the thumb and forefinger of your off hand, grasp the iron’s tang and the finial at the end of the wedge (5). Tap the plane’s heel with a hefty mallet, in effect driving the plane off the wedge and iron. If this doesn’t work, clamp the wedge’s finial in a vise and drive up the body with mallet blows. (Be careful, to avoid cracking the wedge.)

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

Next, set the fence. Determine the desired distance between the edge of the board and the outside edge of the groove, then set the fence by measuring the distance from the inside edge of the iron to the fence. Snug up the washers on the left-hand side of the plow’s body. Next, check that the fence is parallel to the skate. First, measure the distance from the inside edge of the skate to the front portion of the fence (7). Make the same measurement at the back of the fence and compare numbers. If they’re different, adjust one of the washers. Once the fence is parallel, tighten the nuts to trap the plane’s body against the washers.

You’re ready to apply the plow to the wood. With your left hand, press the fence against the board’s edge. Press the skate (and the cutting edge) down onto the board with your right hand. Using both hands, push the plow forward (8). Some users prefer to start a groove at the far end of a board and work backwards, but I’ve always started at the near end of a board and haven’t had any problems. If this is your first time using a plow, I can almost guarantee that your depth of cut will need to be reset. A proper shaving will be thin enough to curl but not quite as thin as one made by a smoothing plane.

RABBET PLANES AND MOVING FILLETSTERS

Wooden rabbet planes are simple tools: they’re just comprised of a body, blade and wedge (9, right). They must have been widely used in the 19th century, judging by the number of antique planes around, but I prefer a more sophisticated tool: the moving filletster (9, left and center). These planes have fences, depth stops and slitters. The blades in rabbet planes and moving filletsters are flush with the right side of the plane’s body, so you can work right up to an adjacent surface. Some irons are square to the plane’s body, but many are skewed.

A rabbet plane doesn’t have a fence, so you must clamp a batten to your workpiece to guide it. A moving filletster’s fence is different than a plow plane’s fence. On my planes, it’s a 2″ wide board attached to the sole via a pair of large screws (10). Adjusting the fence is a simple matter of loosening and tightening the screws, but, like the plow plane’s fence, you should measure in two places to be sure that it’s parallel to the plane’s body.

On a moving filletster, a slitter, or nicker, scores the wood ahead of the iron (11). This blade is particularly important when you’re cutting a rabbet across the grain, in order to make a clean cut. My planes have different slitters: on one, the slitter is wedged in place like a conventional plane iron; on the other, it’s a length of tapered metal fixed into a dovetail-shaped mortise. Slitters must be sharp, and are installed so the bevel faces in. Adjust the slitter’s exposure so that the point extends from 1/32″ to 1/16″ below the sole.

Both of my moving filletsters have skewed irons which must be carefully ground and sharpened to maintain the correct skew angle. When you install the iron in a rabbet plane or moving filletster be careful to position it so that its right outside corner is perfectly aligned with the right-hand side of the plane. Ideally, you’ll want a bit more exposure of the cutting edge through the sole than you would with a smoothing plane.

To cut a rabbet with a moving filletster, crowd the fence against the edge of the stock being rabbetted with your left hand (12). Then, with your right hand applying both downward pressure and forward movement, begin taking shavings.

Cross-grain rabbets require extra preparation. In order to prevent the plane from tearing out fibers at the end of each stroke, clamp a backer board onto the far edge of the stock (13). When you’re working with a relatively brittle species you might want to first score across the grain with a sharp knife, in order to cut deeper than the slitter.

DADO PLANES

Dado planes come in a variety of widths, usually in 1/8″ increments from 1/4″ to 7/8″. They are significantly more sophisticated than rabbet planes, but of course they don’t have fences like a moving filletster. A dado plane has two irons–the primary iron, which cuts the shavings, plus a secondary iron in the front of the plane that scores the wood on both sides of the cut (14). The primary iron is skewed, while the secondary iron is really just a pair of slitters ground on the end of a rectangular blade. The slitter iron is the full width of the dado, and is sharpened so that the bevels face in. Dado planes also have 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 batten, so in addition to fixing the stock between bench dogs, you must also clamp or tack a batten beside the dado you wish to cut. Plus, because dados go across the grain, you should clamp a backer board to your stock in order to avoid ripping out long splinters when you complete your cut. As you can see in photo 15, a wooden dado plane lifts clean cross-grain shavings between the scorings left by the slitter iron.

WORKING IN THE LIGHT OF HISTORY

The truth is, I don’t choose to use these hand tools because I’m looking for greater efficiency. I use them for other, in my view, more compelling reasons. Foremost among these is a direct and concrete connection with the history of my craft.

My A. & E. Baldwin moving filletster (16) was made in New York City between 1830 and 1841. It was likely used in that city or its environs during the first years of its life by a craftsman whose name is now lost. The plane traveled from New York to Ohio during the next 175 years, perhaps stopping along the way to provide service in the shops of several other craftsmen. Every time I pick up the plane and apply it to wood, I am connected to those woodworkers. When I smile at the site of a shaving curling up from the plane’s throat, I imagine a similar smile on the face of the craftsman who first used this tool somewhere in New York, a long time ago.

BY JERRY SPADY

The things humans have made over the millennia have depended upon both the materials available and our understanding of their properties. Secondarily, we’ve had to develop appropriate tools and techniques to manipulate these materials. This is true on the grand scale of, say, the Coliseum in Rome, all the way to tiny-scaled items, such as nanomachines. The human scale, where most woodworking efforts reside, is just as dependent upon materials.

New materials are not so frequently encountered in a field as old as woodworking. In fact, most woodworkers believe this area has been pretty thoroughly explored. Still, industry’s recent introduction of sheet goods such as MDF, OSB, and particle-board has influenced the types of objects we make. New adhesives, fasteners and tools can also change the range of shapes that we make of wood, sometimes dramatically. This is the story of a new material for the woodworker’s arsenal.

Woodworking as I knew it changed suddenly on a memorable day in January 2001. I had wanted to make small wooden snowflakes, which are exceptionally difficult forms. For the previous 10 years or so I’d been making shop-built plywood out of veneers, and this particular day I used a vacuum bag as the clamping system, something I’d never done before. While not initially obvious, the difference in this plywood was profound. It was more than strong enough to withstand the cutting and shaping process necessary to produce those delicate snowflakes. I was both surprised (well, astonished, actually) at my success and intensely curious. Having now worked for several years with this material, I am convinced that its properties are different from anything I’ve ever encountered. It looks like wood, yet it behaves in unique ways. I call it Fineply.

I’m a long-time woodworker, but my background is in basic research, so I’ve approached exploring this material from that perspective. Early on in my work with shop-built plywood, before I discovered Fineply, I had settled on marine epoxy as my adhesive of choice. When you clamp a veneer and epoxy sandwich under vacuum pressure, I suspect that the epoxy infiltrates the wood fibers of the thin veneers before it cross-links and cures. While most of us think of epoxy as strictly an adhesive, it is also a plastic, and I believe that Fineply really amounts to a form of “plasticized” wood, with properties of both materials.

1. Shavings from Fineply and ordinary plywood.
EDITOR: TOM CASPAR; PHOTOS: JOHN LUCAS
2. “Hortense”, the leafy sea dragon (2008); finish by David Reeves; 20″ × 16″ × 8″.

3. “Chest of Drawers” (2005); 29″ × 19″ × 12″.

Irrespective of grain configuration, Fineply is much stronger than any plywood I’ve ever used, and this is especially true in smaller dimensions. Fineply is built up in the same way as ordinary plywood, with the grain direction alternating in each layer, but there the similarities end. To give an extreme example, I can plane an intact, or nearly so, ribbon-like shaving from any edge of a five-layer piece of Fineply (1). Commercial plywood won’t yield intact edge shavings.

I’ve exploited Fineply’s strength to create very delicate, three-dimensional figures such as “Hortense” (2), “Chest of Drawers” (3) or “Neuron” (4). Fineply can also be fashioned into thin door panels or legs that are delicate in appearance, yet strong enough to support weight (5).

Fineply is exceptionally stable. Like plywood, it won’t move as much as solid wood with changes in humidity (a structural effect). Recall that Fineply contains epoxy, which in a thick enough film is an absolute barrier to water, both in liquid and vapor forms. So if you apply an element created with Fineply (such as a cattail or a butterfly) upon the surface of a larger panel of Fineply, the resulting structure should be immune to the problems associated with wood movement over time (6).

Fineply may be carved to exquisite detail (7). You don’t have to design around problems of grain configuration. You can also create what I like to think of as three-dimensional marquetry. I’ve made Fineply from veneers of contrasting colors, then carved it to specific depths at specific locations. The different colors or grain configurations result in realistic images with more three-dimensionality (see photo 7, next page, and 8, page 38).

Exploring Fineply’s properties has been enjoyable, to say the least. Since I make the Fineply myself, I’m freed from reliance on a commercial source, even if one were available. I can make whatever type I wish, including curved pieces that are formed over a mold (9). (This piece was made in collaboration with sculptor/turner Ralph Watts.) Parameters such as the thickness of individual veneers, the number of layers, the veneer’s color or contrasting figure, the overall size of the panel and its curvature are all under my control. I’ve used both commercially available veneers and created my own by resawing.

4. “Neuron” (2003); 16″ × 10″ × 6″.

5. “Aquarium” (2006); 65″ × 32″ × 16″.

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

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

8. “Emily’s Ascent” (2008); detail.

9. “Venusian Houseplant” (2007); 75″ × 22″ × 20″.

10. “Neural Whimsy” (2007); 69″ × 33″ × 45″.

Working with Fineply requires a slightly different approach to woodworking. Once I realized how delicately you can shape this material, I soon ran out of power tools and found myself reaching for hand tools, such as hand-cut rasps for rough shaping and #2 and #3 (German cut) jeweler’s files for finishing up. Many of the complex and convoluted shapes I’ve created required small pieces that were difficult to grasp in my fingers, much less a vise. And joining delicate pieces to each other introduced a new set of challenges (3 and 10).

I’ve worked with Fineply for eight years now, and haven’t exhausted ways to use it, nor do I seem to have reached its limits. In fact, I’ve deliberately tried to make strange forms that I thought might be impossible to make out of wood. I believe Fineply opens up a whole new range of possibilities in the ways that we can express forms and ideas in wood. It’s easy to make and surprisingly versatile in application. I hope there are others out there in the woodworking community who might enjoy a new material to play with.

I’m looking forward to seeing where this might lead you. You might find yourself looking at jewelry supply houses for the necessary tools if you choose to work at a delicate scale. As you become more adept with the material, your projects may well become almost absurdly labor-intensive (sadly, I know this all too well!). Fineply will likely introduce new problems into your shop, but the challenge of solving them will surely be interesting and rewarding.