The Artisan Furnituremaker

ARTISAN FURNITUREMAKER

A Creative Survival Guide

Learn how to couple inspired design with flawless execution to create your own striking, original furniture! Long-time furnituremaker Darrell Peart brings all his experience to bear in providing a masterclass on the three fundamental requirements for success in the field of custom furniture design: creativity, design, and workmanship. In The Artisan Furnituremaker, he offers a detailed examination of the design and production methods of the Greene brothers, legendary furnituremakers and architects of the Arts and Crafts Movement, and illuminates how the brothers achieved such brilliance in their designs, and how they collaborated so successfully with the craftsmen who brought their designs to life.

The book goes on to show how you can combine all three elements—creativity, design, and workmanship—in your own workshop and produce high quality, distinctively original pieces of your own.

The Artisan Furnituremaker is the ultimate resource for creators looking to take their craft to the next level and produce striking, original work.

Furniture Design

Darrell Peart, a leading authority on Greene & Greene design, writes and lectures about design, woodworking, and the history of the Greene brothers. Peart is the author of Greene & Greene: Design Elements for the Workshop and In the Greene & Greene Style. He has been in woodworking for over fifty years.

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the a rtisan f urnituremaker

A Creative Survival Guide DARRELL PEART

Fresno, California

The Artisan Furnituremarker

© copyright Darrell Peart 2023

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ISBN: 978-161035-392-2

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Introduction

My start in woodworking was by happenchance. In the summer of 1973, I had recently quit my first (sort of) woodworking job, making laminated beams. I was bored and wanted something to invigorate me.

Many of my free-spirited friends were engaged in adventures. Mike had driven from Seattle to New York, playing his guitar and singing for traveling expenses, while Curt was hitchhiking—mostly up and down the West Coast. In my mind they were living life to its fullest, having one adventure after another.

Many of my not-so-free-spirited friends (and I) had jobs that provided some of the niceties of life. There was no denying the comfort those niceties could provide. At the end of that line lured contentment. While contentment has its benefits, I did not want to be lulled into it. That was for old people (says the now-old guy who still feels the same way). Something was surely missing. I didn’t know if Mike or Curt had the answers, but at least they were out there searching. I wanted to join them!

So, I convinced Curt to take a hitchhiking trip with me from my home in Auburn, Washington to San Francisco. To make it an adventure, we would leave my Volkswagen Bug at home and take only twenty dollars with us. This puzzled Curt. I had a good-running car and money in the bank. Hitchhiking was not his preferred method of travel—he did it because it fit into his budget (more like lack of budget).

Twenty dollars—even in 1973 dollars—did not go far. A week and a half after we set out, we found ourselves stranded at a freeway entrance just north of San Francisco. We were out of money and downwind from a restaurant. For several hours no one picked us up. Eventually a young woman pulled over. She was headed back home to Seattle, just as we were. Between us, we had money for gas, but no more. So, we drove straight through, stopping only to fill the tank and empty our bladders.

It was an exceptionally long drive, and we had hours to fill with conversation. The driver told us she made a living making things and selling them at the Pike Place Market. I don’t remember what exactly she made, but I sort of recall it involved sewing. She was

passionate about it—and her enthusiasm was infectious! Her excitement was not just about her specific craft—it was a way of life that revolved around creativity and making things. There was not a thing yet defined as the maker movement—that was still decades away. I believe the term used back then was those damn hippies.

I learned three things on that trip. First, I was done with hitchhiking (being stranded eight hundred miles from home had put a damper on what I had previously viewed as a romantic adventure). Second, there are people of good faith in the world willing to help each other out. Third, and most importantly, I wanted to make and sell things.

I didn’t suddenly decide to become a woodworker—instead I desired to be simply creative above all else. My previous job making laminated beams had introduced me to using power tools, and I was comfortable with a router in my hands. Because of this, woodworking seemed the obvious choice to sooth my creative fever. The word career didn’t come to mind—somehow career seemed to fall short.

In a broader sense, I was seeking the life of an artisan furnituremaker—an artisan being someone who has mastered their craft, makes a living at it, and as such contributes in a meaningful way to society. My goal has never been to find contentment. I have long since lost the urge to hitchhike, but it still feels good to shake things up now and then. Taking on a project that pushes my limits still gets me excited!

I hope some of what I have shared in this book sets you on the path to find your happiness as an artisan, whether that be as a maker of furniture or of whatever craft excites you.

The Artisan’s Place in Today’s World

Defining an Artisan

My use of the term artisan requires an explanation. The common understanding of the word is a highly competent craftsperson—that is, someone who is skilled at making things, usually by hand. (The term by hand has a lot of baggage and can be at times disingenuous, as I will discuss later.) This understanding of artisan precludes the attribute of artist. But I want to take a step back to the root word of artisan—which is art. My definition of artisan is someone who is not only highly skilled at making, but also at designing.

Today’s artisans do not limit themselves to simply replicating things. Many have a strong desire to be truly creative. The 1970s model that I knew, in which there was a distinct separation between designer and maker, is no longer universally accepted. Today an increasing number of people yearn for a livelihood that serves as an outlet for their creativity and self-expression. For these artisans, it’s no longer sufficient to just design or to just make. It is not one or the other; it is one and the same. It is hands on, and a very personal approach. It is in essence the life of an artist that makes things. Twentieth-century furnituremakers Sam Maloof and James Krenov both worked in this vein.

Being an artisan of any kind is a commitment fueled by passion. It is a lifestyle. But it is a lifestyle that is often in opposition to the tide. The lure of a good living beckons from the corporate world, while going it on your own is fraught with uncertainty. The question becomes, does a solitary maker of things have a viable path forward that contributes in a positive way yet offers fulfillment and a livable income?

The Maker Movement

The growing maker movement indicates there is interest from both people who want to make things and people who want to buy those things. It is an incredibly diverse group. Some makers are producing stuff of the highest order—imaginative works in which the aesthetics and quality go hand in hand. While at the same time others are fabricating

tasteless, poorly made objects. Let’s hope some of these latter makers are going through a process of learning and improving. My discussion here concerns the former, or at least those who strive to emulate the former.

The current maker movement has much in common with the Arts and Crafts movement from the early twentieth century. Back then, artisans were motivated by the steady march of industrialization and the advancement of impersonal products. In our present day, makers are reacting to the virtual world. They yearn for something real—something they can put their hands on and feel, something that is tactile—as opposed to the computer-generated world that exists behind a curtain of zeros and ones.

Many of my woodworking students make a comfortable livelihood in technology. They often tell me that making serves as a therapy of sorts. While they enjoy their careers (the tech world is full of opportunities to be creative), woodworking provides a balance. They find pleasure in using their hands to create something in the real world.

While technology and industry can produce stuff of superior quality, they frequently produce things that are inferior and disposable. The trend is to let quality take a back seat to profits. This is prevalent in many industrially made products—not just furniture. Corporations buy up companies that had once possessed pride in their products and then shift the focus to profits. Routers, for instance, that once were solidly built and reliable now have cheap plastic parts that fall off (a long-standing peeve of mine!).

A reliable, honest product is not always at the forefront of business these days. But many in the maker movement seek a balance between profits and integrity. To them, profits are essential, but pride in a job well done has value as well.

Even when technology lives up to its promise and produces things of quality, there is something missing in these things—the small random errors and variations that are akin to the human hand at work. Those small imperfections are a connection between the user and another human being, whether the maker created the object last week or a thousand years ago. I dread the day when technology attempts to mimic the human hand at work by programming irregularities—or, worse, when artificial intelligence endeavors to produce original art by reducing human emotions to an equation. I hope that the need to have things in our lives that connect us to other human beings never dies.

In my work the human hand can be seen in the softening of an edge or corner, or the silk-like pillowing of an end-grained surface. Or it’s the little pull back of the inside corners (done with a rasp) of a finger joint (see image 1-1). Sometimes it’s the final hand shaping of a hand pull or my strap detail.

Handmade (or Not)

There has been a focus over the past several years on the use of hand tools alone—that is, on working in a shop where the only things that plug into the wall are the lights. I admire this push to revive old, almost forgotten skills. I hope that that knowledge never fades away. But my purpose in this book is to lay out a path for the contemporary artisan furnituremaker—one who makes a sustainable living in our current, ever-changing environment. And though there are a rarefied few who can make it by using only hand tools, for most of you that is not a viable path.

Given the reality of today, I would think most would agree the label handmade should be reserved for those who use entirely hand tools from raw lumber forward. But that is most often not the case. Work that involves jointers, planers, bandsaws, and table saws are often proclaimed to be handmade as well. The terms handmade and Old World craftsmanship get a lot of usage when selling furniture. This is especially so with online craft markets. While I have no intention of degrading handmade (quite the opposite; I respect those who truly do things by hand), I do feel it is a term that has been used too freely and to some extent overly romanticized.

In addition, the term handmade has been abused through clever advertising, rendering it of little practical use. Handmade conjures up an image of a furnituremaker at their

Image 1-1: Finger joint from my Aurora Pedestal Desk. Imagine the pull back at the inside corner of the joint as a budding finger awaiting to mature and take form.

PHOTO BY DARRELL PEART

bench with their hand plane and a pile of shavings. I am sure most of you have seen such ads with softly lit, oversaturated photos of an old guy with a beard—who sometimes appears to be ill at ease with a tool in his hand. The point is, the term handmade has been abused.

This abuse is not a new thing. Back in the 1980s, I worked for Harry Lunstead Designs (HLD). Harry was a well-known designer of office furniture in Seattle. I labored in the custom department, making, for the most part, high-end conference tables. While Harry was alive, the furniture was built with integrity and great sensitivity to aesthetics. I was disciplined that doing it right was the highest priority. HLD is where I first learned to use grain with forethought and sensitivity. Thank you, Harry!

While Harry’s furniture had integrity, I would not classify it as handmade. Sure, our department made some details by hand, but we employed a lot of industrial machinery as well. At its peak, HLD employed more than two hundred people on the floor. We imported the latest, greatest, biggest manufacturing equipment from Europe. Most of the workers were engaged in high production but could not be called furnituremakers; they were in fact simply machine operators.

HLD salespeople had a different take. They would regularly give potential clients the tour of the shop, and I would often listen in as I worked. I think there must have been a reward for the salesperson who could use the term Old World craftsmanship the most times while keeping a straight face. They could have made an honest argument for HLD’s high standards, but in my mind Old World craftsmanship invoked something else entirely.

They may have been responding to the general belief that work of the distant past was of a much higher quality than that of today. While I do not deny there may be some truth to this, it is not entirely so. To be sure, much of the surviving work from long ago is well made. But if you think about it, furniture that was produced using inferior material and methods likely did not make it to the present day. “Survival of the fittest” eliminated much of the shoddy furniture, and we get a somewhat distorted view of what came before us. Imagine a hundred years in the future—how much IKEA furniture will survive?

The salespeople may also have been acknowledging that when most people think of handmade, they imagine finely honed skills and unrivaled attention to detail. But I would argue that the handmade does not have absolute rights to these things. That is not to say that machine work is always done with a high degree of skill and attention. Shoddy work can be done by hand as well as by machine.

Workmanship of the Imagination

David Pye, in his 1968 book The Nature and Art of Workmanship, has a fascinating discussion on handmade. He uses the terms workmanship of certainty and workmanship of risk. People associate the workmanship of risk with the handmade, the hand being more at risk to make a bad move and spoil the work. The workmanship of certainty is associated with power tools and machine work, which are generally perceived to have replaced the need for skill. Pye rightfully argues that that these assumptions are not necessarily true. He points out that a dentist with a motorized drill is highly skilled and is engaged in work that is very much at risk.

I would add that much of the machine work people do requires advanced skills and is also at risk of mistakes and errors. Granted, machine errors do not bear the mark of the human hand, as would the slip of a handheld tool. But they are human errors, nonetheless. Machines require skills to operate—some more so than others and often much different types of skills than required by hand tools. We have big industrial machines, like edge banders; once set up, it’s merely a matter of feeding material into them and monitoring them for malfunctions. While intimate knowledge of their setup is required, the results are for the most part very predictable. The hand is not actively involved in the actual work. There is little or no creativity involved in using them. There is no chance for a slip of the hand to spoil the work. It is for the most part a workmanship of certainty.

Another tool with predictable results is the computer numerical control (CNC) machine. Once properly set up and programmed, it represents the workmanship of certainty. If all the chances of human error (from poor registration to improper hold down to bad tool path) have been accounted for, the CNC is capable of endlessly producing perfect parts. It can represent the workmanship of certainty taken to the nth degree, endlessly repeating cuts with extraordinary precision.

While the CNC has zero chance of imparting the mark of the human hand, it presents enormous potential for creativity. In the hands of a highly creative person, it represents the ultimate workmanship of the imagination. It allows an artisan to dream big and remove previous impediments to construction. Its potential is immense. If you can dream it, it can cut it out!

The CNC does, however, require exacting technical expertise that, at least for me, can be a bit uninspiring and feel somewhat removed from creativity. For me, mastering technology such as computer-aided design (CAD) and computer-aided manufacturing (CAM)—tools needed to operate a CNC—is a hill to climb. The payoff, though, is truly immense and worth any impediments along the way.

Humanizing the Machine

Much of our negative feelings about machines come from the industrial world, where the division of labor is a primary contributor to the so-called dehumanization of the machine. When engaged in high-production furnituremaking, an operator can spend a few minutes setting things up and then hours feeding parts. Standing at one end of a machine and repetitively making the same movements is mind numbing. Often an operator is limited to running one machine only and has very little, if any, personal input on the resulting product. Given their limited involvement in the process, the operator would not be able to build the piece of furniture from the beginning to the end. They are unlikely to feel truly engaged, and their labor is dehumanizing.

When I first started woodworking in the 1970s, I read a letter to the editor in a British magazine. The writer lamented that the only skill required in modern-day woodworking was to avoid a gory accident. They may have been highly skilled with hand tools and saw the up-and-coming younger generation as taking shortcuts that bypassed what had previously been essential knowledge and skill.

I am not entirely without sympathy to this perspective. I lament the fact that younger woodworkers often have no reference to how it was before the CNC machine. But I imagine that if that lamenting writer were confronted by someone from a hundred years prior, they would be on the receiving end of the rant. The world moves on whether you like it or not. I sincerely hope that hand-tool skills never die out, that that knowledge continues to be passed down. But to be viable you need to compete in the environment you are given. That environment is by no means all bad—there is plenty to be excited about and celebrate.

C. R. Ashbee, a central figure in the English Arts and Crafts movement, said it well in 1901: “We do not reject the machine, we welcome it. But we desire to see it mastered in industry, and not as it is at present, to remain the master.” Machines are not inherently bad. They are what you make of them. They can in fact be the source of much creativity. The issue becomes how an artisan furnituremaker uses them to carve out a path that has meaning, one that is both practical and fulfilling, one that addresses the world as they find it today. The answer will not be the same for everyone and will no doubt evolve with time.

If you are merely feeding parts into machines, they become degrading. However, if you use them as tools in a creative endeavor, you become the master, and they become a means of self-expression. Smaller shop machines—such as the jointer, table saw, handheld router, and shaper—exist as opportunities for creative engagement. Many of these machines require significant skill to operate and offer a tactile connection to the human hand.

I worked with Roy Weimer, a master of the jointer, many years ago. I was in awe of his skill with the machine. He could flatten boards that most of us would deem impossible. If given a pile of table legs to flatten and square, the resulting stack was dead flat—both on the top and the side. This may not sound like a big deal, but the next time you have flattened a stack of parts, place a straight edge on it and see for yourself.

For me, the jointer has a tactile quality. When I run a board across a well-tuned one, I can feel it in my hands. There is something satisfying in flattening a wide board and the vacuum that pulls back when lifting it from the outfeed table. The jointer entails both strategy and skill. Give me a pile of boards to flatten and I am happy for hours.

The table saw and the shaper can also actively engage your mind. Jig and fixture making are highly creative ventures, and both these machines are rife with opportunity to exercise the imagination. Many other power tools and machines in the woodshop engage the mind and require great skill in their operation. While they may not leave the mark of hand tools along the way, they are by no means dehumanizing.

Thinking Back, Looking Forward

In 1907, Gustav Stickley wrote the following in “The Use and Abuse of Machinery, and Its Relation to the Arts and Crafts”:

It should be the privilege of every worker to take advantage of all the improved methods of working that relieve him from the tedium and fatigue of purely mechanical toil, for by this means he gains leisure for the thought necessary to working out his designs, and for the finer touches that the hand alone can give. So long as he remains master of his machinery it will serve him well, and his power of artistic expression will be freed rather than stifled by turning over to it work it is meant to do.

If only Stickley and Ashbee could have a conversation concerning today’s mastery of machines and artistic expression. Would our greater use of machinery be too much for them? Would they see the CNC as a means of artistic expression? How much machine work would they be comfortable with? And if only a select few of us could have the same conversation with artisan furnituremakers a hundred years in the future. How would that discussion differ?

I believe there would be a mix of both common ground and disagreement. We would find consensus on several principles. Quality of work and aesthetics are of equal importance. It is the artisan’s vision that drives the work. The maker has creative control over

the process. The division of labor should be kept to a minimum. The work must leave the mark of the human hand in some way.

The disagreement would be variations in the acceptance of each of these principles. To be sure, I would find this disagreement from many present-day furnituremakers as well. I do hope that we would agree on the basic principles, though, and the debate would be only one of degrees of balance.

My guess is that our forebears would be less likely to assign all the joinery to a machine than I would. Our distant successors may well assign even more of the work to the machine. It is not a stretch of the imagination to visualize a CNC router (or whatever succeeds them) being programmed to replicate the hand pillowing of an end-grain surface or the varied subtle shapes I like to bestow on my ribbon pull. The delicate differences imparted by hand work would just be a matter of coding multiple varied tool paths (assuming tool paths are still a thing).

Our successors may swap one human attribute for another. They may be more inclined to rely upon the mark left by the human imagination, rather than the mark left by the human hand, to reach out and connect to their distant successors. They may be most influenced by the emotions that speak to us via shapes and proportions and balance or a mixture thereof. Once machines can duplicate every nuanced move the human hand can make, artisans might focus on the realm of the imagination. I hope that some vestige of interaction with the hand is still a part of that distant work.

In an ever-more-technical society that frequently rewards hype over integrity, the aspiring artisan furnituremaker has a difficult path to follow. Here’s hoping that this book will be of help. If you are like me, the creative part of woodworking drove you to this career in the first place. Creativity is still, after fifty years, what excites me the most!

There are less obvious ways to group as well. Notice in my Fremont Dresser the cloudlifted arched rail. This arrangement organizes seven drawers into two basic groups and in doing so follows Varnum’s rule of two horizontal divisions of the primary mass.

Other groupings can be seen in the work of Charles Greene, who with his brother Henry formed the design firm Greene and Greene. I will study their work in greater detail

Image 3-13: The built-in bookcase in Greene and Greene’s Thorsen House is a classic example of balance and proportion using William H. Varnum’s rules. PHOTO BY DAVID MATHIAS

in later chapters. For now, I will use two examples to further study the primary mass and its divisions.

This first example is the built-in bookcase from Greene and Greene’s Thorsen House (image 3-13). Here Charles uses divisions within divisions. The initial viewing gives us a rectangular primary mass. The primary mass is then prominently divided into two horizontal sections, with the drawers being one section and the doors being the other. The doors (upper section) are dominant.

There is a lot more going on here though. Don’t read through this section if you are rushed for time. There is a lot to take in and I will be heading down a rabbit hole of sorts that takes a few twists and bends. So, take it slow and stay with me.

The vertical divisions of the primary mass comply with Varnum’s rule for more than three divisions in that they are all the same width. Now look a little closer at the difference between the upper and lower sections. There are six upper divisions but only four lower divisions. Except in the very center, the lines of the upper and lower division do not line up. This not only breaks up monotony of a large surface but also serves to separate the two sections visually. The dominance is clearly in the upper section (image 3-14).

Image 3-14: There are six upper divisions but only four lower divisions. Except in the very center, the lines of the upper and lower division do not line up. Greene and Greene’s Thorsen House built-in bookcase

PHOTO BY DAVID MATHIAS

Image 3-15: The primary mass is divided into two equal sections. PHOTO BY DAVID MATHIAS

Now look at something that is a little more nuanced. Consider the center point where the upper and lower sections line up. It is marked by a common division line that divides the primary mass into two equal vertical sections. This halving is not screaming for your attention. It is merely suggested, probably not something that you were consciously aware of. But it is nonetheless there, and one way or another your eye perceives, at least in a subtle way, the two equal vertical divisions of the overall primary mass (image 3-15).

As you progress down the hierarchical order, take each subsection and treat it as if it were an individual primary mass. In other words, with every step down, consider each new section on its own merit. Keeping in mind the two major vertical divisions of the primary mass, isolate one of those sections and have a look. First observe the lower section, which consists of two equal drawers and follows the rules for two divisions of the primary mass (image 3-16).

Now move to the upper section. There is a lot to break down here so let’s start with the basic stuff and then move our way down. Here you see three major vertical divisions (doors)—all equal. Now, you may remember Varnum states that for three vertical divisions

Image 3-16: The major divisions of one vertical half of the primary mass.

PHOTO BY DAVID MATHIAS

Image 3-17: Considering the entire upper dominant section of the primary mass, the three vertical divisions (as seen in image 3-16) become a part of six equal divisions and so comply with Varnum’s rule. PHOTO BY DAVID MATHIAS

Rules of Design

the center section should be larger. And you may also remember I augmented that rule to state that if the grouping were a part of a larger mass, then the rule for that larger mass could be applied. This is the case here. Considering the entire upper dominant section of the primary mass, the three divisions become a part of six equal divisions and so comply with Varnum’s rule (image 3-17).

The next level down brings you to just one of those doors. Varnum’s rule for three horizontal divisions of a mass is that the center section should be larger, with the top and bottom sections varying. And so, it is (image 3-18).

To break down the major vertical divisions of each door, let’s begin with the top and the bottom sections. They are arranged in a similar manner and the same rules apply to both. They are both divided vertically into three sections, with the center sections larger and the outer sections equal. This again complies with Varnum’s rules. There is one more thing to take note of here, though. Isolating an individual top or bottom section as a single unit, you see a three-section pattern—stepping back for just a moment you see that three-section pattern repeats six times across the width of the entire bookcase, and once

Image 3-18: Three horizontal divisions a vertical mass with the center section dominant. The top and bottom sections vary.

PHOTO BY DAVID MATHIAS

Image 3-19: The top and bottom sections of the doors are divided vertically into three sections. Stepping back for just a moment you see that three-section pattern repeats six times across the width of the entire bookcase.

PHOTO BY DAVID MATHIAS

again complies with Varnum’s rules for more than three vertical divisions (image 3-19).

That gets you to the center section of each individual door, which again consists of three vertical divisions. This time they are equal, but—if viewed in their larger context (across the width of the entire bookcase)—they comply with the rule for more than three vertical divisions. Note that the center sections of each door do not have the same vertical spacing as the upper and lower sections. That is, the divisions of the center section are segregated into three equal partitions, while those of the upper and lower sections are not equal. This irregularity breaks up the monotony of predictability while still maintaining perfect symmetry (image 3-20).

The second Greene and Greene example I would like to use to discuss combination divisions is a bookcase from the Culbertson House (image 3-21). This piece plays out a little differently than the last example and shows a way to successfully break the rules. It also is one of the few examples where, I believe, the Greenes (or someone at the bench) made a mistake.

First, notice that the primary mass is grouped into three major vertical sections. As Varnum states, the center section in this case should be dominant (image 3-22). To enhance the center’s dominance, it is proud in height, width, and depth—but in an understated way. The width is not substantially wider than the outer sections, and the Greenes did not employ a prominent center pediment. Look at the overall design and its nine vertical divisions (including all three major vertical divisions). All nine are the same width, except for the very center of the nine, which is marginally wider. This quietly works to enhances the dominance of the center of three vertical divisions (image 3-23).

Now here’s where I see the mistake. (I admire the work of the Greenes so much that calling this out feels a bit like blasphemy.) Go to the lower section. Take a close look at the crotch veneer doors on either side of the dominant section. To balance the piece, the veneer patterns should mirror image from one side to the other. But they do not! The

Image 3-20: The center section of each door is divided into three equal sections. This is different than the upper and lower sections, which are divided into three vertical unequal sections. PHOTO BY DAVID MATHIAS

doors on the left side emanate from the center, with the more figured grain to the left side of each individual door. Now look at the doors on the right side of the piece. It’s the same as on the left—figured grain to the left side. (The arrangement of the escutcheons is how it should be—mirror image.) Here’s a thought experiment to help show why this veneer feels wrong. If you were to visualize placing the bookcase design on a teeter-totter, it would not be perfectly balanced—it is heavier on the left side!

This is a good segue to my next topic of visual weight. Focus your attention on the glass panels of the doors. Varnum’s rule states that in a mass divided into three horizontal sections, the center should be dominant and its top and bottom sections should vary. The center section is indeed dominant, but its top and bottom sections are close to the same size. Nonetheless, the design works! Notice the vertical bars that pass through all three segments. The bars are not all equal. The center bar reaches all the way from the

Image 3-21: The bookcase in Greene and Greene’s Culbertson House breaks the rules (in a minor way) and succeeds.

PHOTO BY DAVID MATHIAS

Image 3-22: The primary mass grouped into three vertical sections. To enhance the center’s dominance, it is proud in height, width, and depth—but in an understated way.

Image 3-23: All nine divisions are the same width, except for the very center of the nine, which is marginally wider.

Image 3-24: The center section is indeed dominant, but its top and bottom sections are close to the same size. Nonetheless, the design breaks the rules and works!

PHOTO BY DAVID MATHIAS

PHOTO BY DAVID MATHIAS

PHOTO BY DAVID MATHIAS

Rules of Design

bottom to the top panel, while the outer two bars stop at the top of the center panel. To my eye, the bars affect the visual weight. All three bars start in the bottom panel, but only the center bar (with the visual aid and support of the outer two bars) reaches all the way to the top of the top panel. This has the visual effect of placing more weight in the bottom panel (see image 3-24). If this doesn’t make sense—stay tuned, I will get into this in the next chapter.

Before I move on, I want to drive home once again that—as shown in this Greene and Greene piece—rules are nothing more than training wheels. If you endure the rules too long, they become inflexible. They can gain control and leave little opportunity for true creativity. I do not try to apply the rules in my work, but I am often aware of their presence—they are too ingrained in me. I never concern myself with ratios, and I never say to myself, “I cannot do that because the rules say so.” The rules are no longer an intellectual exercise for me. Instead, I just feel them—and they do not rule me!

Fundamental Principles

Function as a Restraint

The aim is to eventually design with your imagination in charge. But there is one primary restraint upon the imagination that I must discuss first. Function! A piece of furniture is a functional piece of art. If it severs its alliance with function, it ceases to be furniture and becomes art alone (well, maybe—art being a point of debate).

Function brings with it restrictions that vary in flexibility. It often dictates size and shape. Sometimes the purpose of the piece is to store or display things, and this dictates the doors and drawers. Restrictions, to some degree, can be a good thing. They narrow down the possibilities to provide a solid starting point with fewer distractions. Other times, however, they may feel too limiting and present challenges that demand unavoidable compromises.

Ergonomics is a characteristic of function that you cannot escape. As an example, consider how the pieces of a dining set work with the human form and in turn with one another. The seat of the chair must be high enough for the average person to plant their feet on the floor comfortably—this is normally seventeen to eighteen inches. Given the seating height of a typical person, the table height is generally set at about thirty inches. With these parameters in place, the knees need to clear the table apron as well as all structural members of the base. Then there is the matter of elbow room. Depending upon the situation, the dimensions pertaining to these functions can vary. And there could be more criteria to consider as well—there is more ergonomic information than can be put to memory. An essential resource for any furniture designer’s library is a reliable book on ergonomics. My go-to book, as I’ve mentioned, is Panero and Zelnik’s Human Dimension and Interior Space. There are many other such books available.

Function can sometimes present challenges—especially if competing criteria are at odds with one another. Design then becomes a balancing act. Sometimes these challenges can spark inspiration, and the solution seems to come out of nowhere. Other times

intuition (good taste) is needed. Design becomes a matter of throwing out multiple ideas and letting your intuition be the filter. And then sometimes there are no good answers, and the solution comes down to the best-fitting compromise.

When a client commissions furniture, they may place functional restraints—ones not covered in ergonomic books—upon the design. But a client does not necessarily think in terms of ergonomics and often does not present its considerations as part of their list of functional restraints. It is imperative for you to fully understand the function of the piece and to ferret out all those dimensions that relate to function. It is your charge to ask all the right questions concerning function. Experience, often in the form of mistakes and omissions, will eventually guide you to recognize which questions to ask.

So, let’s go back to our example of the dining table. One obvious question is, how many people will the table seat? But more information is needed. Will the seating be snug or leisurely (this makes a difference in table size)? What is the size of the room in relation to the size of the table and the clearance around nearby objects? While the answers to these questions will be particular to the commission, they should be influenced by information in a good ergonomics reference book.

It pays to be proactive in thinking through the function of a piece. A missed dimension that affects the function is much easier to rectify in design than in construction. Once you account for the functional restraints, you can get down to the business of being creative!

Designing with Gravity in Mind

Gravity is something that we are all immersed in. It’s one set of rules we cannot escape. The effects of gravity permeate how we see the world—right down to our subconscious. Visual weight (as opposed to actual weight) is how our minds perceive an object in relationship to gravity. Actual weight may or may not coincide with visual weight. It’s all about perception. If visual weight is amiss, we pick up on it instinctively.

Take for example the Rainier Tower in Seattle, completed in 1977. Modern construction techniques allow it to visually defy our notion of gravity. The tower sits upon a base that starts out narrow and becomes wider as it rises. Because of our understanding of gravity, our minds are conditioned to view this arrangement as not structurally stable. Stand

Seattle’s Rainier Tower defies our notion of structural integrity and gravity.

PHOTO BY DARRELL PEART

near or under this building and our brains send an emergency message to our bodies—run for your life, this thing is going to fall!

Recently my granddaughter Hailey was in Seattle for a visit. I planned to take a photo of the Rainier Tower for this book, then take her to the Chinese Room at the top of the Smith Tower (completed in 1914 as the tallest building west of the Mississippi) just a few blocks away. But standing at the base of the Rainier Tower alarmed Hailey. She lost all confidence in very tall buildings—no visit to the observation level of the Smith Tower that day!

We would never feel in danger of structural collapse standing at the base of the Egyptian pyramids. We perceive them, with their large supportive bases, as being quite stable and certainly not in danger of toppling.

Nature is replete with examples of gravity at work on design. Consider the whippet and the bulldog. Each is tailored to comply with gravity, but in a different way. The whippet, with its long legs, is lean and sleek. This relationship with gravity greatly favors speed. The bulldog, on the other hand, is exceedingly stout and muscular. It’s relationship to gravity greatly favors brute strength. Imagine the whippet and the bulldog competing at the racetrack. It doesn’t take much imagination to predict the outcome. Conversely, imagine the two dogs in a tug-of-war. No heavy lifting for the imagination on this one either.

The pyramids, with their wide bases, naturally suggest stability and support. RICARDO

HTTPS://COMMONS.WIKIMEDIA.ORG/WIKI/FILE:WHIPPET _D%C5%82UGOW%C5%82OSY_SUKA_MB_001.JPG

DANIELSFOTOWELT, HTTPS://WWW.NEEDPIX.COM/PHOTO /1026069/BULLDOG-PET-CUTE-SNOUT-PORTRAIT-HUNDE PORTRAIT-ATTENTION-NATURE-SWEET

Our notion of gravity is so ingrained that we intuitively know which dog would perform better at which contest.

Whether we consciously know it or not, we view furniture design in much the same way. For instance, think back on my discussion of the primary mass and its ratio. The ratio of a primary mass sets the tone for the visual weight of a piece. The closer to square (1:1), the more the primary mass resembles the bulldog. The further you move away from square and the closer you get to something that appears thinner, the more the mass resembles the whippet.

Perceived Strength

My perception of visual weight relates to more than simply the volume or shape of a mass. Another factor I consider is the inherent ability of the structure to withstand the forces of gravity—its perceived strength. A big, square, solid mass exhibits considerable weight-bearing capacity. But structural elements can also be employed in a manner to significantly increase the conception of weight-bearing capacity. Visual weight factors in the inherent ability of a design to withstand gravity. There are an infinite number of ways in which a design can, subtly or not so subtly, work to enhance the inherent visual weight of a piece.

A crucial point of a design is where it comes under the influence of gravity—that is, the floor. This point of interaction is very instructive. If done correctly, the contact enhances the relationship of weight to the design. If done without forethought, though, it can create

The whippet’s relationship to gravity is one that favors speed. It is light and airy.

The bulldog’s relationship to gravity is one of brute strength. It is heavy and muscular.

confusion. We may not consciously be aware of this, but intuitively we perceive that something is awry.

Let’s look at a heavy column, which is meant to support a massive weight. You don’t have to see the top of the building to feel the massive support this column provides. What I want to draw your attention to is the base (plinth)—this is where the action takes place. The column visually transfers the enormous weight from above and deposits it at the base. The base in return broadens and adds mass to accept and shoulder the weight from above. Again, this is something we intuitively know. By enhancing what you perceive as weight-bearing capacity, you imply strength.

Negative Space

Visual weight of a piece is affected by both its primary mass and negative space. Negative space is the area of an outline that is not filled in substance. In a literal sense, it is nothing! Think back to the example of the whippet and the bulldog. Imagine the side profiles of each dog. How much of that profile is solid material (dog matter)? How much of the profile is empty? That empty portion is the negative space. The more negative space and less solid mass in an object, the less pull gravity can exert upon it. The converse is true as well. The less negative space and the more solid mass an object has, the more gravity has claim to it.

Negative space can be manipulated to influence the visual weight of a design. Visual weight, like many things in life, is not a binary thing. It’s not simply an issue of black or white. It exists in endless shades of gray. And, within those shades of gray, there are a myriad of subterfuges you can employ to tweak it in one direction or the other. Let’s look at some practical examples.

I’ll start with a chair designed by George Hepplewhite. If you were to draw a rectangle around the outer edges of this piece, you would find that it decidedly comprises more negative space than solid substance. Gravity’s grip on it is slight. It feels light and airy. Its structural support appears to be at a minimum (its actual structural requirements are more demanding).

Focus your attention on the point where it meets the floor. Notice that the legs taper downward and reduce in diameter as they get nearer this point. Now notice the foot at the very bottom of the leg; the visual weight of the entire piece comes to rest and is contained

This heavy classical column is meant to support very heavy weight. We naturally perceive the plinth to contain and support the weight above it.

PHOTO BY DARRELL PEART

This George Hepplewhite chair appears to be very light, with a lot of negative space and delicate elements.

GEORGE

HEPPLEWHITE, THE CABINET-MAKER AND UPHOLSTERER’S GUIDE (THIRD EDITION, 1794; REPR., NEW YORK: DOVER, 1969)

in the feet (just as it is in the column). The feet are delicate but matched well to their task. There is so much negative space in this piece that it almost wants to float. The tapered legs and delicate feet lend to the perception of the merest gravitational force—if gravity had much less hold on this chair, it would surely drift away. Hepplewhite took advantage of the negative space to push the chair design to the near maximum of lightness and delicateness. But an abundance of negative space does not necessarily dictate that a design lacks visual weight. Just as there are ways to manipulate the details in one direction, there are ways to pull it in the other. Gustav Stickley’s No. 623 Table has more negative than positive space, yet you certainly would not describe it as delicate. Stout would be more apt. Stout and delicate suggest opposite directions, and the Stickley piece relates to gravity in a much different manner than the Hepplewhite piece does. The No. 623 Table appears overbuilt— it’s the table version of the proverbial brick (you know what). Its hefty legs and the substantial stretcher/shelf connecting them speak of an abundance of support—far more than required for the table’s intended use. You Gustav Stickley’s No. 623 Table has a lot of negative space yet appears very stout. RAGOARTS.COM

instinctively perceive that this piece can withstand the force of gravity much better than the Hepplewhite piece can.

Implied strength is a tool that can be used to adjust a design to its intended relationship to gravity. Hefty or surplus structural members and exposed joinery are some ways in which to add visual weight and strength to a piece. To reduce the visual weight, you can do the opposite—minimize structural members and eliminate overt displays of strength.

Ploys and tricks have their limits, though. Typically, more positive space means more intrinsic visual weight and more negative space means less intrinsic visual weight. Intrinsic visual weight is a limiting factor in how effective a ruse can be.

Positive Space

We have looked at designs with an abundance of negative space. Now let’s look at a few designs with mostly or all positive space.

An abundance of solid mass and absence of negative space establish the visual weight of Gustav Stickley’s No. 840 Sideboard (image 4-8). The details do not push or pull the piece’s inherent visual weight, but simply work in harmony with it. The base spreads out beyond the case to provide ample footing. The top, as well as the hardware, are hefty and in harmony with the piece. The drawers are bottom weighted, as befits the design.

For comparison’s sake, let’s look at a couple of other Gustav Stickley sideboards and see how the visual weight compares. The No. 814 Sideboard (image 4-9), unlike No. 840, features a small amount of negative space, which serves to lighten the visual weight of the piece. The design still exhibits plenty of solid matter. Yet overall, the piece is lighter than the No. 840 Sideboard.

The structural features of No. 814, while adequate to the mass, do not work to increase the visual strength of the piece beyond its apparent needs. Turn your attention to the legs. They are adequate to support the given weight—but no more than that. If they were thinner the design would feel anemic. They do not contribute to a feeling of increased strength—just enough to get the job done. Now notice the front bottom rail (beneath the bottom drawer). Again, this structural member serves to adequately support the structure—but nothing more.

Next, see that the top has a slight overhang on the body. I see this as a device to subtlety reach out and pull the primary mass along with it—thus making the mass slightly thinner and lighter. Last, the negative space of the plate rail contributes to the lightened visual weight.

Gustav Stickley’s No. 817 Sideboard (image 4-10) has negative space as well—but the visual weight plays out much differently. This piece has a heavier feel to it than No. 814

Image 4-9: The small amount of negative space of Stickley’s No. 814 Sideboard serves to lighten the visual weight of the piece.

Image 4-8: An abundance of solid mass and absence of negative space establish the visual weight of Gustav Stickley’s No. 840 Sideboard. RAGOARTS.COM

Image

Stickley’s

Sideboard has a decidedly heavy feel to it, and to my eye is heavy to a fault. RAGOARTS.COM

RAGOARTS.COM

4-10:

No. 817

Establishing a Style

First Steps

Style is a form of personal expression. It reflects your outlook on the world and the way you see things. It is not something that should be induced—it should occur naturally.

A style lends continuity to your pieces. It consists of a group of recognizable themes that connect a body of work. In establishing yourself as an artisan furnituremaker, a style provides you with an identifiable look that distinguishes you from the competition. It offers potential clients a measure of confidence in your design skills—confidence that what you design for them will have a similar appearance to those items in your portfolio.

It takes time and repetition to establish a style. Your style can start out as a simple design element or theme that gets repeated in another piece. In the act of repetition, those elements often get modified or revised but still emanate from the same source. Over time, you’ll add other themes and elements to the mix. Eventually these things become assimilated and are like grooves in your mind that you naturally fall into when you sit down to design. Upon reaching this point, your personal style is born.

With time, as your understanding of design develops, you can revise and change your style. You can even reformulate it completely. Think of the dramatic changes in style that Pablo Picasso went through. Gustav Stickley started out with pieces like his Poppy Table (image 6-1) and eventually found his way to designs that were quite different, such as the sideboards discussed earlier in this book, on pages 42–44.

Design DNA offers a framework in which to filter the details of a design to provide continuity. Keep in mind that continuity should not be limited to one piece but carry through all the pieces within a style. So, imagine the source that is pulling the strings to be the same throughout the style.

If you are honest about creating a style, you will need to commit to work and more work (remember the Ira Glass quote). You cannot simply decide, “Today I will create a style.” You can, however, lay the groundwork for doing so.

Emulating those who came before you is a good place to start. Working “in the style of” provides you experience—and, hopefully, understanding—of how a style works. Be aware of the designs of people you admire. (But be especially cognizant of copyright infringement. It is bad karma to copy furniture of a living maker without their permission.) Try to understand the designs as best you can and break them down. Most importantly, though, be aware of any aesthetic tangents you take and, if possible, expand upon them. The tangents might be merely detours, but they might be an off-ramp to your own style.

The learning process does not usually follow a straight line. It meanders and is fraught with missteps and deceptive lures. This is normal. Experience involves time and repetition and detours, and, in that respect, it is not unlike any other skill the artisan furnituremaker needs to master. In the beginning you will be prone to these detours. They are an inevitable part of the learning process. The way to address them is to work your way through them.

Missteps are common, and you often don’t even realize that you have made a mistake. There is so much you will not be aware of as a novice. Mistakes are not a negative thing, though—they can be emphatically positive. Every mistake can put you a step closer to where you want to be, so embrace your mistakes, learn from them, and advance.

Most importantly, you must be critical of your own work. Even if others are singing your praises, don’t be lulled into complacency. It is essential to be totally independent and honest. The trick is to listen to that small inkling of a voice in the back of your head that says something is awry. As a beginner, you will have a vision in your head that is a bit out of focus. It is fleeting and assuredly will not stand still for a zoom-in view. This can lead to blunders and bad decisions. Being caught up in the moment of creative excitement, you may often be oblivious to the flaws of new work. It is necessary to go back every so often with

Image 6-1: Reproduction of Gustav Stickley’s Poppy Table by Robert W. Lang. PHOTO BY ROBERT W. LANG

a critical eye and revisit what you have done. With the passage of time, your vision will have more clarity, and you will more easily perceive those road hazards and wrong turns.

Expose Yourself!

Repeated exposure to good works is extremely beneficial in establishing a style. I am again wading into very subjective material with the term good works—good taste is necessary to determine good works, and we can debate that subject endlessly.

Visual references in museums and books are good starters. I would suggest seeking out those works that inspire you. But don’t completely close the door on stuff you are not initially attracted to. Sometimes the very things that seem unappealing at first are the things that, in the end, really set you on fire!

Take advantage of any opportunity to personally view works that inspire you. Furniture was made to be lived with. Unlike a painting on a wall, a piece of furniture can be seen from an infinite number of angles and lighting conditions. As the design is seen from different viewpoints, shadows come alive and die, perspective and depth are in continual change, details come and go, and various aspects take on differing relationships to one another.

Many times, my understanding of a design has changed dramatically after a live viewing. A good example is Greene and Greene’s Blacker Living Room Armchair, which I discussed earlier in this book (see page 58). I have loved this design from the first time I saw it pictured in Randell L. Makinson’s book Greene & Greene: Furniture and Related Designs. While the image in Makinson’s book was most likely the best single view available to the photographer, it could not convey all the details fully.

Upon viewing the actual armchair for the first time, I was taken aback by how small it was. I had expected something larger in scale. I was also surprised by all its angles, mainly those of the legs, that changed form as I walked around the piece. But most of all I was astounded at the delicacy and depth of the crest rail. The images available to me did not truly communicate some of the most important details of the design.

If it is permissible when viewing a piece of furniture, take photos. Lots of photos! Take shots from different angles and close-up shots of details. These can prove to be invaluable reference material as well as something to meditate upon later.

How you study good works—both in books and in person—is important. Breaking down a piece of furniture and taking it apart to determine what makes it tick aesthetically can certainly be beneficial. But I would advise against making your research a hunt for rules; this feeds the intellect and not your intuition. It would be better to just take a piece in without conscious thought. How does it hit you in the gut? How does it feel? Spend some time to soak it in—not intellectually but emotionally.

Natural Style

Nature presents us with probably the most diverse and abundant source of shapes and patterns to meditate upon. Charles and Henry Greene collected photos of trees and such that held their interest. Much of their inlay work depicting branches and vines can be seen as coming directly from these images. Their mastery of context and visual weight leads me to believe they were making additional connections to their surroundings as well.

Take a walk in nature wherever you live. Our personal environments are all rich with examples waiting to become inspiration.

Last week we had a storm here in Seattle. The next morning, pine needles in the driveway were arranged in a curious pattern that caught my eye. I promptly took a photo before the wind came and rearranged the needles. I have no way of knowing if this will ever bear fruit as inspiration, but that image has been planted in my mind and may someday bubble back up.

Trends

Now that I’ve suggested some ways to go about establishing a style, let me offer some warnings. In pointing out some of the more common perils, I am wading into territory

Pine needles arranged by a storm may become inspiration for a design.

PHOTO BY DARRELL PEART

that is highly subjective. You need to do the hard work and find out where your sensibilities lie. My intent here is to jump-start that conversation in your head. I will point out some of the things I see as problematic to styles. Don’t simply take my word for it—think about these things for yourself. But most of all be aware that the learning process is loaded with detours and missteps; keep a critical eye open.

Trends are not necessarily bad things. Just about every design idea trended at one time. At the beginning of forming their practices, most artisan furnituremakers latch on to one trend or another. Often this is just a starting point, and later they take a tangent or an offramp to their unique style.

Looking back a few decades, it’s easy to pick out designs that did not pass the test of time. What seemed new and exciting back then can now appear frivolous or even cartoonish. At the beginning of my career, furniture with thick goopy finishes and grotesque details was trending. The finish was usually proceeded by scorching the wood with a blowtorch then following up with a wire brush. My neighbors coveted this stuff and put their collection proudly on display. Waterbed stores were a thing back then and were a primary purveyor of this trend. Not much of this has survived, and I would imagine a lot of it ended up in the landfill. But you can step back in time with a simple web search. Although I hesitate to admit it, I started my career making small pieces with the burned and brushed finish.

Today’s equivalent of that old trend is the epoxy river table. These tables often rely upon a heavy dose of glitzy color juxtaposed with wild grain. Sadly, with a little thought, these could be done with restraint and good taste—but few are. Years from now, you’ll likely look back with amusement at this trend.

But the inverse can be true as well. You can also look back with amazement at pieces that were produced ahead of their time. These pieces can be considered trendsetters in a good way. Their artisans had original ideas and led the way in creating a positive trend or even a movement.

In Fine Woodworking Design Book Two, published in 1979, is a coffee table by Chuck Masters of San Diego. This piece was ahead of its time in using a concept like that of the epoxy river tables. While Masters draws attention to the split with an “imposed warp,” he does so while working with the grain. Compare this with the garish contrast of the river tables. The faces of the legs of the Masters table are convex and play off the curved upturn at the split. If only those building epoxy river tables would study this piece.

So, what trends are you to follow? It is easy to get caught up in the latest craze, in something that will rocket you to success. It often appears that others, who have latched onto the latest trend, are having a great ride and all is good. But trendy is not necessarily

a reliable gauge of good. When considering an approach, ask yourself, is there something here that truly inspires you? A design feature could be well respected and still not ignite a fire under you. If you choose to follow a trend, it needs not only to be in good taste, but also to motivate you. It needs to hit you on an emotional—not just an intellectual—level. In the long run, you need to do work that ignites your imagination. The path forward is not something you should have to push yourself to do. Rather, your work should be the fuel that supercharges you.

Following a trend boils down to two questions. Does the trend excite you? Is it in good taste?

In the beginning of your journey as an artisan furnituremaker, your good taste may be nothing more than an inkling. Learn to listen to it. Good taste is sometimes acquired along the way. It is important to be critical and willing to make a U-turn if need be.

The alternative to a useful trend is a cheap thrill. Cheap thrills are ways to acquire quick attention to furniture. For the most part they bypass the hard work of design. They are flashy and hijack the eye. They are unsophisticated and lack refinement. They disrupt the order of things by shouting so loudly for attention that they drown out the other elements of the design. Remember our discussion on design being not democratic but a top-down affair? Cheap thrills disrupt the hierarchical order. I like to call them wowie zowies, a term that musician Frank Zappa popularized in the 1960s. Their purpose is to wow us with zingers! My coffee table in the following discussion is a good example of a cheap thrill. In this case it’s a series of cheap thrills competing with one another.

Just to be clear, the shock value of a design idea is not the issue here. The issue is using shock value as a shortcut for good design. The painting The Scream by Edvard Munch is truly shocking, but there is thought behind it. Shock value in design, of course, is a very subjective topic.

Restyling a Misstep

The small coffee table shown here (image 6-3) is mine from many years ago. With some reluctance, I am using it as an example to illustrate my point about cheap thrills. I would rather highlight the best of what I have done rather than the worst. But the design serves to demonstrate that we can all learn from our missteps.

Back when I made this table, I was operating under the misconception that a successful design could simply be the product of including as much attention-grabbing stuff as possible. If a little was good, then more would be even better!

Multiple elements of this design compete for attention. The legs and aprons are highly figured maple, which serves to electrify them. They are like a flashing neon sign screaming,

“Look at me!” The purpleheart top starkly contrasts the maple, and while it does not have the shock value of the leg structure, it too draws attention. The through tenons are exaggerated to the point of being almost cartoonish. They protrude far too much and are wedged with contrasting purpleheart. They too forcefully demand more than their share of the limelight. The design is essentially multiple megaphones blasting on high. It’s a three-way tug-of-war with no clear winner. Instead of a hierarchical order, there is anarchy and confusion. The eye is overstimulated with no direct path to follow.

In retrospect, there are changes that could make this piece work. If I were to design it today, I would probably shy away from such a stark contrast as figured maple versus purpleheart. But, for the sake of argument, let’s stick with the materials and make them work. The combination is rather vivacious, but it is not necessarily a bad thing.

First there are a couple of things that are simply bad judgment on my part that need to be addressed. (They only marginally relate to the topic at hand.) I would reduce the thickness of the top. As it is, it’s too chunky and clumsy. It appears to be more than an inch thick. I would start by drawing it at 7/8 inch and adjust this to my liking.

Next, I would work on the other two dimensions of the top—length and width—and the resulting overhang. These relate to the length of the through tenons, which protrude nearly to the edge of the top. This is an awkward arrangement. The tenons are in effect challenging the top for authority. The top is the focal point of the design and should clearly be so. So, before adjusting the overhang of the top, I would pull the tenons back

Image 6-3: Multiple elements of this design compete for attention. Instead of a clear hierarchical order, there is anarchy and confusion. PHOTO BY JEFF ZAGUN

so they protrude about 1/8 inch and certainly not more than 1/4 inch. The purpleheart wedge can stay, but as a much thinner line.

Now back to the top. As in all coffee tables, its length is greater than its width, which means the length is the dominant dimension and as such it warrants prominence. I do not use a formula for the relationship of the top versus the base. It’s a matter of what feels right. I let my intuition make the call. To unambiguously establish the top as the focal point, the overhang needs to be increased more in length than in width. It becomes a bit of trial and error to nail down the final size of the top. I might start by adding a half inch additional overhang to each short side and extend the length an extra inch on either long end. This would be just the starting point; I would refine this to my judgment.

The legs and aprons are blatantly embroiled in chaos—not just in relation to the top, but also in their struggle for dominance between each other. The flamboyant figure of the maple creates this conflict. First, let’s look at the legs. The figure plays out prominently across the thickness of the leg and in so doing becomes an impediment to the eye. The eye desires to comprehend the leg as its outline suggests—much longer than it is thicker. However, the figure, being at a right angle to the length, supports the exact opposite. To highlight the leg’s dominant length, the grain should generally flow in that same direction. My personal preference is for somewhat straight grain on all four sides, running the entire length of the leg. To find a piece of wood that allows this, look at the end of a board for grain at a 45-degree angle. The same correction can be applied to the rails. If the visible grain runs predominantly with the length (rather than the width, as in my table), it will not create conflict.

A little (much tamer than in this photo) figure could be introduced to either the legs or the rails of the restyled table, but not to both. The general direction of the figure, though, must still flow with the long dimension and not against it. Keep in mind that a flamboyant element, if well thought out, can be a vital part of an exceptional design. But more is not a shortcut to better. Give careful thought to what’s going on and prioritize the use of elements that grab for attention.

Overstating a Design Feature

A common trap you can fall into when developing your personal style is elevating some specific feature that is newly discovered and oh so exciting! In your zeal, you may highlight it to the point where it overstates its importance. Looking back at the coffee table, the exaggerated through tenons are one such example. At that time I made this, exposed joinery was a detail that caught my attention. There were examples available that used restraint and forethought, but in my exuberance I chose to exaggerate it to the point of being outlandish.

This overstating of the new reminds me of a chapter in my pursuit of audio nirvana when I was much younger. I wanted the biggest baddest stereo possible, and each time I bought a new unit I rushed back home to my apartment to hook it up. I was so excited! I turned the stereo up—usually playing Led Zeppelin but sometimes Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s Marche Slave—so even my more remote neighbors could savor the moment. The thrill of the new unit was fleeting, though. Eventually the novelty of the latest gear dissipated, and reality set in. My vision of bliss by way of the latest hi-fi fad was not obtained. My life was much as it was before.

There is a lesson to be learned here, and it holds true with the pursuit of both audio nirvana and a new design element. Once newness wears off, things fall into perspective. You realize that you have elevated the importance of this thing that was new and exciting, and your enthusiasm was not shared by everyone.

Striking Out

Let me admit to one of my style prejudices here. It involves the word striking. Striking can describe anything, usually a single element, that stands in stark contrast to its surrounding elements. It can be grain as well as a contrast in color or tone. Striking is not necessarily a bad thing, but I usually cringe upon hearing the word. All too often, striking seems to be synonymous with garish.

If careful thought is given to it, contrast can be a net positive. But often it is disruptive and counterproductive. The eye is drawn to the contrast rather than the overall design. The contrast then becomes the design by default and inhibits the eye from taking in the entire piece in an orderly manner. Nuance suffocates for lack of its small, but rightful, share of attention.

To illustrate my point, I’ve edited an image of my Fremont Chest of Drawers (image 6-4). I’ve included an unaltered image (image 6-5) for comparison. As you can see, the end panel structure in the doctored image stands out in high contrast. It’s difficult not to notice the highlighted elements, and in this way the natural flow of the design is disrupted.

When working with highly contrasting colors or grain, you must ask the question, “How much of a distraction is it?” Is it the first thing the eye is drawn to? If so, does it act as an obstacle? Does it keep the eye focused on the flashy thing rather than on other elements of the design?

There is a place for contrast. If done with sensitivity and forethought, it can momentarily catch the eye but allow it to move on as well. It can highlight a point of interest without hijacking a design. But when done for the sole purpose of attracting undue attention, contrast corrupts a design. It becomes a bright light that blinds us to all else. It is a cheap thrill!

The artisan furnituremaker James Krenov used grain and contrast with unsurpassed sensitivity (image 6-6). I would highly recommend studying his work. For a deeper discussion on the use of grain, read Krenov’s The Fine Art of Cabinetmaking (1977).

Outrageous Statements and Cheap Thrills

Design is not unlike life; it exists with infinite shades of gray and contradictions. As much as I am repulsed by some pieces meant to shock, I am delighted by others that push the boundaries. But where should the line be drawn? If I were to draw the line myself, I would be constantly redrawing it. My initial reaction to a work often does not hold fast, which causes me to frequently change my mind about it. For example, I was not impressed upon my first exposure to the work of Greene and Greene. But eventually I became a fullfledged Greene and Greene fanatic, and they have proven to be major influences on me. Your personal likes and dislikes will always be with you. And they are a good thing when you are involved in creative endeavors. They feed and shape your intuition. Without them you would not have a point of view to push you to design and to help in establishing a style.

Image 6-4: An image of the Fremont Chest of Drawers edited to illustrate overly contrasted elements.

PHOTO BY DARRELL PEART

Image 6-5: An unaltered image of the Fremont Chest of Drawers.

PHOTO BY DARRELL PEART

But your point of view should not be rigid. If you build a wall around input and refuse to consider new ideas, you do damage to yourself. You will eventually lose the ability to be inspired by whatever comes your way. That does not mean you should do away with strong opinions. They guide you; they are essential. It is an inescapable contradiction that you should both embrace strong opinions yet be open to changing them at any time. Such is art!

Anything that wildly tests the bounds of what you find to be usual or expected can be construed as an outrageous statement—an element that is unexpectedly plopped in

Image 6-6: The contrasting panels on James Krenov’s Convex Doussie Cabinet, date unknown, are employed with unsurpassed sensitivity.

PHOTO COURTESY OF THE KRENOV FOUNDATION

an otherwise conforming design, or anything that is bizarre or outlandish that intends to shock in one way or another. Outrageous statements are not meant to conform; they are meant to rebel! Rebellion can take many forms, though, ranging from anarchy to organized, thoughtful resistance.

There are designs that intend to shock alone. They have nothing else going on but the desire to be scandalous. They have no nuance or order. Outrageous designs can be attempts to substitute shock value for talent and skill.

My opinions regarding designs that are meant to provoke and scandalize are both mixed and strong, ranging from admiration to disgust. I doubt if I will ever embrace that design using a broomstick for a chair back anytime soon. But give it some time, and who knows? Just to be clear, though—while I am often turned off by some attention-grabbing designs, I firmly believe all creative ideas should be given exposure, even those I vehemently disagree with.

Making an outrageous statement or delving into the fanciful with sensitivity takes a lot of experience. It can be done, and many fine examples exist. My advice to novice furnituremakers it to tread ever so lightly here. Don’t be lured by the prospect of easy recognition and forgo the hard work of design by trying to be more outrageous than the next person. This can turn into a race to the bottom. And in the end what seemed like a shortcut can become a dead end—although potentially a helpful learning experience.

There is a part of me that is rebellious and likes to take a poke at the status quo. But there is another part that recognizes that without some order, all that is left is chaos. Rebellion is healthy but not to the point of destroying all that exists. This expresses my current relationship to outrageous designs. You can see this at work in my attempts to rebel within my clinker gate featured earlier in this book. This piece was ever so difficult for me to design. There is both order and rebellion in it. Finding a balance between the two that felt right to me was not easy. That balance is something you must work out for yourself. It is best done with the benefit of experience.

While I am open to considering outrageous statements in design, I am much less tolerant of cheap thrills. There is a simple question that can identify a cheap thrill: does an aspect of the piece overpower the design and grab all the attention? If you cannot take your eye off it long enough to take in the finer points of the design, the answer is probably yes.

Cheap thrills lure you with the promise of easy recognition—a shortcut to establishing a successful style. When you are trying to earn a living from your work, their temptation is especially strong. The desire and need for success by the way of recognition can be overwhelming for the beginning artisan. It can mean survival.

Most of us, including myself, have fallen prey to the temptations of producing cheap thrills at one time or another. Like any misstep, this has value as a learning experience. But don’t let cheap thrills become your identity. Furnituremakers who are successful in the long term establish styles that reflect their personal taste, ability, and sense of order rather than works that simply grab attention.

Successful Rebellion

I have railed against potential perils in establishing your style as an artisan furnituremaker, but I feel I should offer an example of things done right as well. Here I would like to highlight the work of another furnituremaker, Seth Rolland, who has designed and built several pieces I truly admire.

Seth’s Eddy Coffee Table (image 6-7) is a masterful design, one that represents his design language well. It features an element that grabs your attention, but not in a violent way—it invites the eye to explore. It does not rebel for the sake of rebellion. It does rebel, however, and presents us with the unexpected. (His website describes his works as “unexpected, harmonious, and playful.”) Seth has given us a sort of gentle rebellion that is thoughtful and full of nuance. He offers a slight alternative to reality but does not seek to destroy reality in the process.

The stone is what initially grabs your attention. It is the central player here and imposes its shape upon the other elements. It is highly unusual and something you would never expect. Its smooth shape and texture are pleasing, though, and it does not seek to shock you to the point of excluding everything else.

With the title word eddy in mind, I see the woodgrain as water flowing in a stream and the stone as a force that interrupts and interacts with that flow. At the place where the stone emerges through the top (flowing water), there is impact. The stone’s mass and weight work to pull the flow downward.

The stone is precisely poised within the design but not symmetrically so. An engineer could assuredly quantify the workings of the cantilevered top—but you don’t need that confirmation. You instinctively perceive the natural balance that is at work.

Here are Seth’s thoughts on his intent for the Eddy Coffee Table:

It is about balance amid motion and the relationship between what is above the surface of a river and what is below. Japanese rock gardens were also part of the inspiration for the top view. I had initially planned on very plain, straight-grained wood for the top to reflect the sand of the garden. However, when I learned that the raked sand represents water, I looked for a board whose grain reflects the turbulence created by a rock in a river. The carving below the surface…continues this theme.

Seth considers how this piece fits into his larger body of work:

What’s challenging as a designer is knowing each piece needs to stand on its own merits, without context. The viewer may see this piece first, and not know it is part of a series, where some of these ideas evolved step by step. Balance has been a big theme in this series. In fact, it was the desire to create greater cantilevers than were possible in my wood furniture that led me to adding stones. I like materials to express their inherent properties and didn’t want to just add stone as a design feature without it having a reason to be there. In this case the stone’s weight clearly is necessary to balance the cantilever, and this cooperation between the elements unites the design.

Of course, Seth’s intent for this piece—and for all the work that establishes his style— may not match your reading. Perception is an individual thing. While you may prefer that the original intent of your design is understood as you conceived it, that may not always be the case. Others may view your work in a positive way but not in the way that you do.

Image 6-7: Seth Rolland’s Eddy Coffee Table, 2016, is emblematic of his “unexpected, harmonious, and playful” style.

PHOTO BY MYRON GAUGER

A magazine once gave one of my designs a positive critique, attributing influences that supposedly played a part in my conceiving the piece. Their attributions were their own perceptions—not mine. They weren’t even close to my ideas!

Even though you may not perceive the original intent of an artisan’s design, your own perception has value. This thought was planted in me many years ago when reading Hermann Hesse’s novel Steppenwolf (1927). In the author’s note to the 1961 edition, Hesse writes that even though his book was widely misunderstood, those misunderstandings could be of value.

Poetic writing can be understood and misunderstood in many ways. In most cases the author is not the right authority to decide on where the reader ceases to understand and the misunderstanding begins. Many an author has found readers to whom his work seemed more lucid that it was to himself. Moreover, misunderstandings may be fruitful in some circumstances….Of course, I neither can nor intend to tell my readers how they ought to understand my tale. May everyone find in it what strikes a chord in him and is of some use to him!

One way to help your intentions be clear to those who view your designs is to make them true to yourself. By basing your work on your personal taste, on principles that feel right to you, and on precedents from nature and other designers that you admire—and by avoiding the traps of trends, overstatements, and cheap thrills—you can establish a style that is unique to you. The clearer that style is in your mind, the clearer it will be to your audience.