The woodworking rabbit hole I've fallen far, far into is filled with wonderful people, stories and ideas. There are more projects and materials and techniques than could be enjoyed in one lifetime. In many of the blogs, social media posts, videos, websites etc. there's a common refrain about striving for perfection in this craft. Perfection is a little bottle with a tag that says "drink me."
The rough timber, planed to a perfectly flat and square board; the complex joint that goes together as if the tree grew that way; the ideal grain - these are the places where I hear about the pursuit of perfection the most. One maker I follow uses machinist's feeler gauges to confirm flatness. Another brings out an electronic micrometer that measures to the thousandths of an inch. I'm awed by the skill of these woodworkers. But I've stopped trying to keep up. Fundamental to all woodworking - and part of what makes this craft so deeply beautiful - is the understanding that wood always moves. I've had the experience of hand planing for far too long, trying to achieve perfect flatness and squareness, and been thoroughly disheartened when it moved in the humidity. Here's what I learned: no one notices minor shifts in boards. Wood always moves, even after it's built into something. In the end, if it looks flat and square, and all the joints go together properly, it's successful. The whole point of woodworking is to convey that fundamental deep beauty. There's something better than perfection: grace. When I look at one of my first boxes, I see all the imperfections. I notice tiny gaps in the joints. I know where the rough spots are. The feet are pretty close to identical. I can tell you where the split in the grain was repaired. But the box is still beautiful. It was a joy to make. It taught me a lot about the craft of woodworking - perhaps more than if it were absolutely flawless. I wouldn't change a thing. Grace is by far the best tool to reveal the deep beauty of this craft. Drink up.
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"Festina Lente" is a quote I came across recently that speaks to me about progress gained by not pushing through the frustrating parts. Σπεῡδε Βραδέως for the classical Greek fans among us, festina lente means "make haste slowly." Sometimes the best thing to do is put down the chisel - or the pen, or the social media, or what-have-you when things aren't working out. With age has come wisdom, and not only the ability to put the chisel down, but the peace to be okay with it. The project will be there later when I'm in a better head/heart space. I'll get a lot further not having to re-do things because I kept going when I should have stopped.
What do you do when you find yourself at the crossroads of ambition and frustration? |
The Maker and the MakingI'd like to say I'll let my work speak for itself. How can I do that when there's so much that can be said about it? Archives
October 2022
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