My recent hike in New Hampshire’s White Mountains prompted this thought.

As we attempt in our woodworking shops to make objects of some small beauty, I believe we are merely borrowing from the ultimate source of beauty, the Creator, to bring joy to us and to those who appreciate our work. That is truly happy woodworking, for which I am grateful.

Happy woodworking to you, dear readers.

Fresh designs are exciting to conceive and build. The effort and risk involved in developing a new design concept lead to a feeling of accomplishment when the work is done. By virtue of their novelty alone, such pieces draw attention, and tend to be called creative, imaginative, clever, or even brilliant. New interest is created, boredom is avoided, and challenges are met. Creativity expands.

Yet, if every project is fresh and different, when will you have a chance to refine your work? Most truly excellent work is a result of refinements of previous attempts at the same or similar idea. Such work builds upon a previous design concept by refining elements such as proportions, materials, textures, workmanship, and meaningful embellishments. The integration of the elements is also refined.

That’s how the best work comes about. It’s true of furniture, jokes, recipes, tools, music, and on and on. You have to work on something to make it better! Your work does not always have to be new and different. And as for “original,” I’m not sure there truly is such a thing. On the other hand, appreciating the value of refinement does not excuse working an idea to death, getting stale and unimaginative, complacency, or creative laziness.

As an example, look at the work of the late Sam Maloof. His iconic rocking chairs are the products of years of refinement of a core style concept, but his work is never boring. Still, early Maloof is not as good as later Maloof.

Another good study in refinement is Albert Sack’s Fine Points of Furniture books in which his keen eye identified the “good, better, best” of early American furniture and its features.

Now, here are some related bite-sized opinions for thought. The “arteests” and the arbiters of cool in some parts of the high-end craft world seem to reflexively give extra credit to work which is new and different, but often lack the attention span to extol work which is less flashy but has undergone sustained refinement. New is not automatically better. On the other hand, the approach from some corners (Architectural Digest?) seems to take it as axiomatic that the refined work of modern masters such as Maloof, Jere Osgood, and Silas Kopf cannot be as good as that of the 18th century masters. Oh, how I disagree with that!

In summary, while there is much value to fresh ideas, we should not forget the role of refinement in producing the best work.

It is not easy to make fine things from wood. Woodworking is a succession of mostly subtractive steps which requires careful planning. The critical differences between success and failure in most woodworking processes are subtle, often difficult to reliably articulate, and regrettably seem to require a bit of failure prior to the success.

Human nature creates a tendency to imagine an easy path to success, and, further, to seek this illusory path against all odds. Now certainly, woodworking can be taught and learned with reasonable diligence and, along the way, plenty of fun. Today, there is an abundance of excellent learning tools which admirably remove the unnecessary mystery from woodworking. Unfortunately, the woodworking student – and that means all of us – can be easily distracted by the allure of magic.

Magic is everywhere in the world of woodworking. Catalogs tout machine jigs, especially for the router, that guarantee “perfect” results “every time”, hinting that no real skill is required. Sharpening and finishing, perhaps because they harbor perceived mysteries, are particularly prone to the din of hype. Gurus demonstrate astonishingly fast technique making parts that are conveniently abstracted from the constraints of a real project.

Sure, there are places for time-savers, innovative devices, and instructive demonstrations. The point here is that the hype can lure you to squander your efforts seeking answers in the wrong places while neglecting the acquisition of true craftsmanship. Though the noble task is slower than we might like, and sometimes disappointing, it is ultimately joyful.

Consider this: the only magic tools are the ones attached to the ends of your arms, and they only do what your brain tells them to do. I suggest being cautious about where you invest your time and energy in developing your woodworking craftsmanship. You very likely have an intuitive sense of true skill and quality, especially if you have developed it in other fields. Follow that, not the hype.

That’s the way to happy woodworking.

The machine’s 7 1/2-inch blade, powered by a motor claimed to develop one horsepower, could cut 1 5/8″ thick wood on a table 14 inches deep. Its shipping weight was all of 31 pounds. Sears was selling it for $70 in 1970, and though now it hardly seems an enviable tool, back then I wanted it.

While returning home from competing in high school indoor track meets in New York City during the winter months, I would get off the public bus and browse the tool department at the local Sears store as I waited for a ride to complete the trip. I studied that little saw and imagined exactly how I could use it to make things from wood that would exceed my basement output at the time. I had been carrying in my head a scene from a few years earlier when I saw a man, a real woodworker, cut parts for a box I was making. He used a cabinet saw to do this more easily and precisely than I could ever hope to by hand. Much later, in recollection, I could identify his machine as a Unisaw.

Oddly, having now found, through the wonder of the internet, a picture of that little saw in a pdf of the 1969 Sears catalog, I clearly feel a glimmer of that long ago desire. (Page 26 of the catalog, bottom right corner.) I never bought the saw. But I kept making things from wood, and it’s OK now, life worked itself out and I’ve got a very nice top-of-the-line cabinet saw along with lots of other tools. The love, and that’s just what it is, love, endured and evolved.

It must be about push and pull. The way life is, we spend so much of our time and energy pushing ourselves to do the things that must be done. No complaints, and all that. There are, though, a few special things that call to us. These pull us and don’t let go, not for a long time, maybe never.

Heed that pull. Follow, if you can. It’s your soul calling – and it’s important.

Happy woodworking.

Steve Jobs understood, and was able to bring to fruition, not merely the intersection of technology and design, but that they are inseparable aspects of a desirable product. High tech devices are, after all, valuable only if humans can interact with them, and it is via design that we do so. The inviting look and feel of Apple products draw us to them. So often, while we see other brands in the store, we readily sense that we want an Apple – leaving aside whether we can afford it.

Jobs recounted that a course in calligraphy that he took years before he began designing computers was a great influence in developing his appreciation for the importance of nuance and subtlety in comprising an overall style and look. In that art, the smallest details of spacing and line weight, for example, matter decisively in creating the whole image.

Phones, laptops, and other electronic devices are all basically the same shape, but the details of an Apple product add up to produce an unmistakable attractiveness. When you know the underlying functional quality is also there, the product is a real winner.

So what does this have to do with woodworking? Well, looking at a Maloof chair or a Krenov cabinet, I think the question is answered. These masters made things that invite our interaction, are the ultimate in refinement of style, conveyed largely with judicious details, and, of course, embody honest quality. When seeing their work, all this adds up to evoke that wonderful “ahhh.” It is the masterful execution of inspired intent. So intimately human, so wonderfully functional, the piece calls to us, and we reach out to it.

This is what we strive for as we take our best shot at making fine things. In Krenov’s words, a “quiet joy.” 

I was browsing in a Woodcraft store a while ago and saw some blank knife blades to which only a wooden handle needed to be attached to produce a nice knife. I am not a knife maker but I certainly like tools, including knives, and figured this would be an easy diversion for me, an experienced woodworker, while more profound projects ruminated in my head. Ha! Yeah, right.

I bought two. I was thinking vaguely, without fully admitting to myself, that one was to screw up and learn on, while the second had a shot at turning out OK. Really, it was not a difficult project, but even such a seemingly straightforward job as this harbored glitches that, lacking specific experience, I was unlikely to anticipate.

How was I to know that the quick-set epoxy would make an ugly thick glue line, or that blending the handle near the heel of the blade would be tricky? Even though I’ve handled knives for many years, decisions for the figure, weight, thickness, and contours of the handle were confusing. I also was not accustomed to seeing sparks fly off the drum sander along with the usual wood dust.

In short, after irretrievably messing up my first attempt, the next try resulted in a decent handle. The process still felt awkward, and I know there is plenty of room for improvement.

So, while not wholly unfamiliar, this was new territory for me. The experience reminded me how damn difficult it is to make things, especially to make them come out the way you really want them to come out. It’s not quick, easy, or perfect every time.

To students of woodworking, and that means all of us, I suggest we ignore the popular trend of hawking this or that technique as easy-peasy, quick as a flash, or (ugh) “perfect every time.” Woodworking is none of those. Sure, you and I can and will learn new skills and do excellent work, but it’s really not easy.

So, ignore the hype and keep making sawdust. Happy woodworking!

Isn’t learning wonderful? You acquire new things that become part of you, you can do it all you want, it’s good for you, and you don’t ever have to stop. It does, however, require humility in that it must start with the admission of the enormity of what you do not know. Thus, I am a permanent student of woodworking. The learning I like best is the kind that I can put into action in the shop.

When asked, I say that I am a self-taught woodworker, true in the usual sense. In reality, I have had countless teachers, almost all from afar. I would like to share with you the woodworking teachers from whom I have learned the most.

James Krenov has to head the list. His writings and work catalyzed my intuition that making high quality things in wood, with a personal touch, is powerfully meaningful. Further, his level of technical refinement continues to set a standard.

Ernest Scott’s Working in Wood, published in 1980 and, as far as I know, long out of print, was an encyclopedic challenge to absorb, especially for learning joinery. I would literally blow the sawdust off the pages as I turned them and practiced making joints. Tage Frid had a legendary breadth of practical woodworking knowledge. His Taunton Press books and articles remain directly usable at the bench. Ian Kirby offers clearly reasoned explanations of techniques that advanced my understanding and helped develop my habit of thinking through woodworking processes instead of accepting them by rote.

There are many more. To learn about wood, I turn to Bruce Hoadley (Understanding Wood), and the wonderful Fine Woodworking articles on different species authored by Jon Arno. Bob Flexner’s lucid demystifying of finishing in his books, and articles in Popular Woodworking, is some of the best explanatory writing I’ve read on any topic. I still refer to Charles Hayward’s Woodwork Joints, copyright 1975, to sort out joinery. David Charlesworth’s incisive understanding of technique is top of the line.

For furniture construction, I often look to the writings of the following woodworkers in numerous sources. Bill Hylton must have taken five lifetimes to learn his range of ability. Chris Becksvoort gives reliable advice borne of long experience. I keep rereading Will Neptune’s articles, there is so much in every paragraph. I’ve always enjoyed Gary Rogowski’s enabling way of teaching several different ways to accomplish a job.

Still, there are so many more. Without a doubt, every devoted woodworker has his favorite teachers and sources. The explosion of woodworking information on the internet adds immeasurably to our learning opportunities. To all of the above and the many more unmentioned, thank you.

I usually approach the completion of a project with hesitancy because I know that, for better or for worse, this is as good as the thing is going to be. I no longer can do anything to improve it, except for marketing, and must accept it. Competing with this is the sense of wanting to get the damn thing out of the shop because I’ve already put enough sweat into it.

Another, more important, very distinct, feeling comes over me. Readers, maybe you can relate. I have a sense of separation from the piece. It is now out of my hands and has a life of its own without any further influence from me. It feels almost as if someone else might have made it.

Well, isn’t that the point of creativity, to make something that stands on its own and is appreciated for what it is apart from its maker? Yes, attention is rightfully now on the object, not its maker. People will, to varying degrees, like or dislike the object. The object is not you, so don’t take the praises or winces too personally. Even though you made it, in this sense it’s not yours anymore and doesn’t need you. Hopefully, it will even outlive you.

This view is in contrast to that of the painted, pierced chic “arteests” of today who seem to prefer that everyone dwell on them more than on what they have made. I believe that we as artists (artisans, craftsmen, woodworkers, whatever you prefer) should be humbled by the degree of mystery that lies in making things.

Yes, this work is personal, but consider the words of James Krenov, “. . . the worth of such things is their whole content . . . [to be] seen – and lived with, in a coming together of sense and observation that will bring quiet joy long after the maker is forgotten.”

It is good to build good things.