Design or engineer?

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My brother and I looked on as a gunsmith at Colonial Williamsburg expertly fit together a black walnut stock with a metal lock. Without raising an eye the artisan patiently answered our questions as though we were fresh off the boat and in need of a good rifle. That is until my brother volunteered that I was a machinist in a former life.

“A machinist” He said as he set his file on the workbench, and peered over his spectacles at me, “In that case, I’ll…. talk…… slow…. for…. your…. sake.”

I often get questions that are less about design and more about engineering. It’s innocent enough and usually no fault intended. Yet to my mind there is a quite a gap between the world of design and the world of engineering. When I think of engineering I think strength of materials, load bearing capacities, slide rules, and efficiencies. For many, engineering is the default starting point. Our education system and industry is geared towards that approach. Engineering is logical to the core; much of it is expressed in numbers and formulas.

When design comes to mind I think of aesthetics, creating something with a “delight” factor. Yes, a chair has to function and bear the stress as we lean back and rack the undercarriage – that’s a given. But a chair also has to invite us to sit and beckon us to grasp the armrest as though it were a bit of shelter from the wind. Design is about learning to visualize a fair curve and a sixth sense for proportions.  It’s about gaining something I call “spatial pitch” where the eye can sense visual music in a composition.

Corinthian Capital by Al Breed, Photo by Lie-Nielsen Toolworks

Jim Tolpin and I are excited about our book “By Hand and Eye” which is just a few weeks away from going to the printer. If you are hoping for a book to help you engineer furniture, you may be a bit confused and disappointed. But, if you ever wondered what it would be like to unlock that inner ability, to gain a designers eye, this book can help you begin that journey. Sure, we do go through some nifty layout tricks with dividers that will make you a better woodworker, but the heart of the book is about learning to visualize, gaining that perfect pitch, crossing that invisible line called delight.

George R. Walker

Underground Railroad Clock

The understated dial gives this clock case a quiet dignity

I seldom copy furniture designs but this tall case clock is an exception. The original sat in the parlor of an early 19^th century farmhouse that was a stop on the underground railroad for smuggling fugitive slaves into Canada. Just a few feet from where the clock sits, hidden within the walls, an impossibly narrow spiral staircase snakes its way from a fire wood box in the basement kitchen to a cramped  secret chamber in the attic three floors up. The Quaker family that lived in the house put together an ingenious ruse to thwart discovery. They installed bee hives in the attic with narrow slots in the gable ends for the bees to enter. If slave hunters demanded to search the attic, it was pointed out that the bees get excited with unannounced guests, but they were certainly free to look. No one decided to risk it.

Secret stairway built into the walls of the house

I copied the original clock and donated it to the historical society to raise funds for the upkeep of the building. It breaks a few rules in clock case construction but in this case, that was what was called for. Not sure if it underwent some heavy handed repairs by someone not familiar with clock construction or was built by a frontier builder with limited knowledge. It’s a bit of a mystery as the original clock has a nice brass 18^th century movement with an imported English painted dial.  Copies get a bad rap in creative circles these days and it’s a shame. Here’s a short clip of of renowned architects Alvin Holm and John Blattaeu discussing the role that copying once played in our tradition.  It has some poor audio in the first 30 seconds but their wisdom is worth reflection.

Hidden Treasure

A pair of child’s writing arm chairs in the white

The workshop sits down a tree lined gravel drive, barely visible from the road. Since 1973, thousands upon thousands of Windsors went from freshly harvested logs to exquisitely crafted chairs by one man in a modest workshop. You’ve never seen Richard Grell’s name in a woodworking magazine, but his chairs are found around the globe, sought after by serious collectors. The big auction houses know to call Richard when a buyer scores that final chair on their bucket list, often commissioning a sister chair or a set based on the prized original. He’s known for museum quality reproductions, as well as his own graceful adaptations of this iconic chair form.

A small sample of one of his painted finishes.

Today when we think about design, it’s often in the context of exploring new ground and novel forms. Yet, our tradition also has a long history of extending and perfecting the past work of artisans. This comes with it’s own challenges. Building on a tradition as rich as Windsor chair making; respecting that tradition while adding to it, requires attention to detail and a practiced eye.  It’s rare as gold to find someone so deeply immersed in a craft. Rarer still is Richard’s open and sharing attitude. With nothing to prove and a true love of the craft, he’s a treasure trove of knowledge.  As we talked chairs in his shop, I noted how he still gets excited about a new detail, using his hands to explain how the lines of a chair converge to make music with wood. Although he’s noted for stunning reproductions, his own Grell chair designs add depth to our American Windsor chair legacy.

Richard in his shop, an artisan you need to know.

One big change is on the horizon, and we all stand to benefit by it. Richard reached the point in his craft where he feels compelled to pass on the knowledge. Starting in 2013 he’ll be offering a variety of workshops on chair making, chair design, and finishing (his painted finishes are second to none).  Whether you are a novice or experienced maker, Richard has much to share from a lifetime making his living with his hands and wits. Details are forthcoming, but for now here’s a link to his commercial site to wet your appetite. Check out the section on finishes.

George R. Walker

The shortest distance between two points is a curve

Contrary to what you learned in 7th grade geometry, a straight line is not the shortest distance between two points. A flowing curve pulls your eye along sweetly, whereas a straight line often halts the eye.

I just finished proofing an article on curvature for the February issue of Popular Woodworking Magazine, and another article for the annual SAPFM journal on how to lay out a Swan Neck Pediment. Both articles share some simple and quick layout methods that will help you visualize curves. This weekend, stop by the SAPFM booth at the Midwest WIA where I’ll be demonstrating how to lay out a Swan’s neck or Scrolled pediment. Even if you have absolutely no interest in this traditional form, it’s a marvelous exercise to help improve your vision and boost your confidence working with curves. Prepare to get dazzled!  I’ll be about all day Saturday, so if you miss the demo or have a design question, don’t hesitate to pull me aside. I’d love to see what you are up to.

George R. Walker

Vision

I hardly leave the house without a camera. This was not always the case. For the longest time I took snapshots while on vacation, or to record family memories. Barb and I have boxes full of out of focus pictures of places I can’t recall. It’s different now since I learned to see. Now my “conceal and carry” little Nikon coolpix is starting to look a bit distressed with bits of masking tape holding parts in place and I’m slowly learning how to take advantage of an awesome Cannon 5D thanks to my brother who’s an amazing outdoor photographer( Walker photography.) But this isn’t about photos, this is about seeing. And the oddest thing about seeing is the way it came about – heeding the advice passed down from our craft tradition and exploring a series of classical standards with pencil and dividers. Now I take pictures because I see so much and I just can’t help myself. Even a walk in a fallow hayfield on a rainy morning turns up the unexpected. I push design because to the woodworker, it’s a marvelous passage into the richness of our craft. Yet every day I’m reminded that learning to see is a reward in itself.

George R. Walker

Crossing the Line

Have you ever winced when someone admired your work and declared you an artist? I take it as a sincere compliment, but I think of my work as craft. If done well it extends our craft tradition, a reward in itself. Yet that “Art” compliment seen in a historical context offers insight that may just help you do your best work. Pre-industrial design literature is filled with references to art.

In the broadest sense the world was split into two large buckets – things that occurred by the forces of nature and things art-ificial, or things made by the hand of man. Thus the word art was tacked onto any activity where we transformed a thing into something else. Art was used to describe the work of the trades such as the art of joinery or brewing.

“Three Pairs” oil on canvas board by Barb Walker

Art was defined as “A system of knowledge which makes the things a man undertakes succeed.” Art was further divided into many branches, but for our purposes the fork that separated art and craft was the distinction between liberal arts and mechanical arts. Liberal being defined as arts involving the mind, what we today call fine art, and included: painting, music, poetry, sculpture, and architecture. Oddly enough Ephraim Chambers Cyclopædia circa 1728 described the liberal arts as the noble branch worthy of being cultivated without any regard to lucre. As opposed to mechanical arts (craft) which furnishes us with the necessities of life and largely involved hand and body such as: weaving, clockmaking, joinery, turning, and cabinetmaking.

Yet even though separate branches, both liberal and mechanical shared some common threads. They both recognized that the best work crossed a line that often defied words to explain. Whether that came after centuries of refinement handed down through generations and resulted in the pleasing lines of a boat hull, or the stunning image of a painting that captures the essence of life. There was always the sense that both craft and art has the potential to cross that mysterious line.

Both arts also understood that there was a “craft” element to be mastered. The painter studied brush techniques, color, values, and perspective, while the cabinetmaker learned joinery, sharpening, and the properties of wood. Yet cabinetmaker and painter also learned the “craft” element of design. In the cabinetmakers case, the craft of design involved simple geometry; mastered not just for layouts, but also to nurture the inner eye, and something even more odd to our modern way of thinking. They held tightly to a rite of passage that shows up over and over again, learning the secrets of the classic orders. These ancient architectural standards helped the mind to understand space and proportions, improve judgment and confidence, and provide the ability to cross that line that defies explanation.

This ancient design standard is a textbook on applied proportions, Drawing by author.

That design skill element is what I’m interested in mastering. I know it doesn’t guarantee success, but it’s the gateway to crossing over that line.

George R. Walker

Inch or Metric?

Machinists are spinning in their graves at what I’m about to share and I can’t quite believe it myself. It’s hard to explain the attachment one gets to a measuring system when you’ve made a living dodging hot steel chips streaming off an engine lathe. A micrometer in my hand feels as natural as a warm coffee cup and for decades a 6” Starrett rule was never further than my shirt pocket, ready to flick a hot chip from melting into my forearm or quickly check a dimension. My mind can still rattle off fractions of an inch in thousands. Quick – what’s 3/32nds, or 7/16ths, or 63/64ths? (.093” – .437” – .984”).

For those smugly thinking I went over to the dark side and converted to the metric system, I must disappoint you also. Fact is, neither inch nor metric plays much of a role in my woodworking. I wanted to learn the language of design and looking back, my dependence on precise measurements was actually a hindrance. Some skill sets don’t translate from one endeavor to another. Skills needed for coal mining don’t apply to fly fishing. Even though I spent a lifetime building things with my hands, aided by a precision rule, it did little to help me visualize a design; in fact it got in the way.

So you are thinking Walker is off his nut advocating some leap into the unknown and  I can imagine you quietly patting your tape measure to make sure it’s still within reach. Admittedly this was a gradual shift which began way back in my machinist days. The rigors of piecework forces one to jettison any motion that eats time, so I was always looking for ways to skip measurements. As I explored traditional hand tool woodworking it seemed that many of the techniques also veered away from using numerical measurements (Perhaps for those same time wasting reasons). Why bother measuring a mortise when the dimensions are built into the chisel? The traditional tool-set eased my tight grip on my precision rule and my numbers focused thinking.

Then came the big leap when I dove into the historic design literature from our craft tradition. Everything was about proportions with only the rare reference to numerical dimensions. As I stumbled through the old drawing exercises and geometry tricks, I began to realize that this went far beyond just becoming adept at drawing and layouts. Mysteriously those old drawing exercises revealed some amazing secrets. They taught my inner eye to SEE. Encouraged, I laid aside all measuring tools except dividers and a straight edge to stretch my thinking. It was like taking a wilderness trip and hearing for the first time warblers and thrushes from every treetop. Except in this case it was all about vision, and being able to imagine clearly both in my mind and as the work came together on the bench. In a nutshell, that’s what Jim Tolpin and I have been exploring together and offering to the larger craft community through our upcoming book. “By Hand and Eye”

Simple arcs of a circle that are key to envisioning curves.

In the end I haven’t sworn off measuring like some fire and brimstone vegetarian trying to convert a world full of carnivores. Instead I find myself simply not reaching for that ruler in lieu of something much better.

George R. Walker

Design at the Point of a Tool

The February issue of Popular Woodworking Magazine prompted a woodworker to ask if I could give a little detail about the tool rack lurking in the background. Actually this plain but very functional tool storage rack was an early exercise in working with simple proportions right at the bench. Something Jim Tolpin and I are calling “Design at the Point of a Tool”. Essentially it’s bringing the basic knowledge of proportions and simple geometry right to the work itself, sidestepping the need for drawings or even a ruler. Dividers, a marking knife and a square are all that’s required. I built this five years ago basically as an exercise to push me out of my comfort zone. I intentionally put away my tape measure, and just relied on simple proportions to guide the actual build. My requirements were straight forward, I wanted a flexible storage rack for frequently used bench tools,  just one step away from my workbench. It’s made from 1 X 12 pine and a few scraps. The overall form is just a simple rectangle that is 3 parts wide by 5 parts high. To this day I don’t know the dimensions in inches, they don’t matter. To establish the envelope for the  lower section containing the cubbyholes I went up two parts from the bottom. This makes the bottom section to the top a ratio of 2:3. The cubbies themselves I sized around the tools that I store. The whole upper section  tilts back slightly. It acts like sort of like a pegboard (except not as butt ugly).  I simply tap in a wooden peg or nail on a piece of scrap to keep order. I’ve changed the configuration several times as tools change.  Here’s a detail of some cleats I use to insure a plane doesn’t tumble off.

Cleats to keep planes from accidently tipping

side veiw

Although this isn’t some earth shattering design, it confirmed there’s something  liberating about actually designing and building right at the bench.

George R. Walker

Proportions add life to a design

Gaining fresh new insights working on the upcoming Lost Art Press book on design. As often happens when teaching or writing, the process forces you to flip over more stones in the creek bottom to see what might scurry out. I’ve been taken again by the power of proportions to bring a life like essence, or to put it another way, make things believable to our eye. I started this journey years ago looking for some magic bullet or formula that might shed light on this most elusive and shy aspect of the craft . Mostly I found more questions than answers. Like how did pre-industrial artisans work to a level of accuracy that boggles the imagination? This is more pointed when you consider the measuring tools frequently seen in historic tool kits.

A different way to work where dimensions took a back seat

Photo by Lie-Nielsen Toolworks

This 19^th century wooden square has a hand marked scale in ¼” increments. It’s not uncommon to find similar shop or blacksmith made rules with crude Fred Flintstone like markings. My background is in precision metalworking (think millionths of an inch) and for the longest time my brain could not reconcile the work with the tools. And how did they build oceans of furniture largely without measured drawings? Those questions drove me deeper into the craft and its design language and tradition. It might as well be a whole other world where the sky’s a different color, the contrasts are that sharp. Those crappy rulers worked just fine because aside from the bad lighting, dimensions took a back seat to proportions and fit. The size of one part was based not on a specification from a print or cut list, but how it related proportionally to the parts around it and to the whole form. Would the fingers on your hand look believable to your eye if they all were the same length? The word creepy comes to mind. Yet those artisans worked intuitively with proportions much like a chef builds flavor in a kettle of stew with seasonings and spices. Beyond that, they spoke a design language that with some practice can be visualized with clear spatial images on the blackboard in our mind. This is exciting stuff.

George R. Walker

Right up to the edge

Just back  from a week in the Northwest with Jim Tolpin working on our upcoming book on furniture design. I was reminded while eating some amazing king salmon why I never order seafood back home. In the midwest we’ve got pork nailed, but nothing  this delicious was ever swam in the Ohio River. Jim and I managed to get the book outlined, but beyond that revelled in those magical moments when creative ideas flowed in a torrent. Our challenge is to bring that creative excitement right into your woodshop. We are convinced every artisan possesses untapped design skills and our debate was just  how we can help unlock that potential. The week capped off with a design workshop at the Port Townsend School of Woodworking.

Every woodworking class I’ve been involved in always reaches a point where it veers right up to the edge of a cliff. I remember teaching my first class on tall clocks and feeling the tension build as 15 students prepped their clock cases for glue up. A mad dash for every available clamp, and then that moment of apprehension when there’s no turning back.

This design class was no exception.  Everything  moved along fine until I decided to take a chance and throw a challenge at these budding artisan designers. Now mind you, just 24 hours before we were fumbling  just  drawing some simple circles and rectangles, when I get the bright idea to take a detour into a Doric classic order. Learning to draw the classic orders was design 101 for the pre-industrial artisan, but I’d never actually guided a dozen woodworkers through this tightly knitted design standard. If you are not familiar with the orders, they are a highly refined stylized form used in ancient architecture. From a design standpoint you might think of drawing them as an exercise in achieving perfect pitch.

Doric Classic order

Half way through, I began to have doubts. It forces quite a mind shift from a proportional veiw and it’s compounded by the fact that all the parts have names foreign to modern ears.

A hand goes up, “George, you lost me on that last step. How did you get the height of that thing above the doodad?”

I tried to ignore the puzzled looks, and sideways glances, ”No problem, that thing’s called an architrave, and it sits on this doodad better known as a capital. Just divide the space above the capital by four.”

Somehow I hoped that students would see the simple weaving of proportions appearing quietly beneath their pencils. We finished the exercise and I dismissed the group for a short break in the fresh air. They scurried, out looking like they badly needed a smoke, while I kicked myself for pushing too far, too fast.

Back in session I asked everyone to pull out their sketchpads and work up a design for a writing desk. As their ideas took shape my excitement grew. Never doubt that a woodworker will surprise you in a good way. They got it! During the ensuing critique they spoke with a confidence absent just a day before. They explained their designs in proportional terms and questions were not about matters of taste but about, form and proportions. They took a leap into the unknown and it was marvelously obvious the underpinnings were holding. It was a beautiful thing to witness.

You can follow this link to a slide show of the class at the Port Townsend School of Woodworking.