“Cleaning is carried out not because there is dirt, but because it’s an aesthetic practice to cultivate the mind.”
Shoukei Matsumoto
– So, is it the chair, he hesitated briefly before continuing, or the process?
– Oh! That’s simple; it’s the process.
He smiled knowingly and we continued to walk.
The conversation had taken place only a month or so ago, but, as I swept the workshop floor I recalled it vividly. It had been an interesting day, and I had reached a mild state of euphoria thinking of all that had gone before and was yet to come.
I put the broom away against the wall, in its usual spot and picked up the hand-saw. It took only a little while to dismantle the chair waiting on the workbench and stack the pieces in a small pile – kindling for future fires. As I looked at it I was reminded of The Bright Carvers – a year working, striving, hoping, toiling, perfecting, only to see their work consigned to the flames, a single piece selected to gather dust in the Hall of The Bright Carvings. Once the ashes had cooled work would begin again on new pieces, better, more intricate, brighter, more perfect, more hopeful – ever hopeful.
After the euphoria comes the reality – a mild disappointment in the final result. I can count on the fingers of one paw of a Three-Toed Sloth the times I have been happy, or at least satisfied, with a finished piece. The chair is, in and of itself, only an object – liked or disliked by the casual observer – but, every now and then, to me, it is something a little more; it captures the essence of the process and all that led to its final realisation. Even in these rare moments, there is a quiet disappointment – the certainty that the journey is over, that someone else will take it up, and start a new chapter, perhaps a completely new story; or, it will be consigned to the fire. But, there is solace in knowing that for a brief while all came into sharp focus, and there was clarity and joy in remembering and creating.
But, maybe that is all there is. I’ll have to think about it a little more.
As I stood next to the log shed, looking at what was once a chair, a considerable investment in time and energy, now only kindling, my thoughts shifted to another time and place, another character, another story, another book. The Fat-man, had, for seventeen years, chased a dream only to see it crumble into nothing just when he thought it was to be realised. After a brief moment of despair, he laughed, took up the challenge and set forth once more on his quest.
I didn’t laugh, but, like Joel Cairo, I was prepared to follow in his footsteps, shake off the disappointment, and resume the task at hand. I looked at the logs, and thought of the dark cold evenings ahead, to be spent in front of the fire they would feed; perhaps reading a good book, being led on adventures, shown new and wondrous sights, sharing in experiences transcending time and place. The lamp on the mantelpiece illuminating the words on the page as the flames consumed, warmed, and inspired.
I needed a small chair, to fit in a small space beside the fire, under the lamp. A chair for reading, Ah! Is there any finer use of a chair? Is this not its true purpose? Perhaps! All I can say is that in this particular instance, the answers to the questions are, NO, and YES.
It would be simple, unobtrusive, not too comfortable, and have arms………..I began to plan and formulate……the long-missing Mojo was rising and the torpor induced by disappointment was falling away…..this one was for me. Consequently, it would be a very simple affair.
Cliche – Plan – Greenwood Ash and Yew Armchair – Jason Robards
The remnants of an ash log were split and axed into rough shapes, and as I worked I enumerated the tools I would use. Some time ago I made a chair with just a saw, penknife and hand-drill, but, over time, things had become a little more elaborate and complicated – such is life, I suppose. But, there comes a time, perhaps many times, when simplification is in order – a metaphorical and literal cleaning and tidying. This was looking like one of those moments. So, a saw, an axe, a drawknife, spokeshave, hand-drill and very, very old rounding plane were to be the tools of choice – they would define the limits of what could be done and how it was to be done. I chipped away at the ash, my expectations, desires and more extravagant flights of fancy curtailed by the limited number of tools, the materials I chose to recycle, but mainly by my very limited skills and ability in wielding them.
There was nothing new under the sun about what I was doing, which helped to ease the process – I was using techniques and ideas from previous chairs, making variations and alterations as I went, depending on how things were going and what was to hand. I looked at the pieces as they emerged from under the blade, and saw beauty and imperfection. The imperfections did not arise from any inherent character of the wood, but from my clumsy, sometimes over-enthusiastic, handing of the tools. I made numerous mental notes to have a sharpening day in the very near future and to slow the flip-down.
The seat gave me pause; I had to peg numerous off-cuts of yew together to create a board of the right size to fit the undercarriage I had finally managed to put together. As I worked the rough and battered surface I noticed deep dents and ingrained marks which would ordinarily cause a few despairing eye rolls. Looking at them I remembered a summer day in Belfast from my youth. I had had my motorcycle for a week or two and was exulting in the joy of ownership and freedom. But, with it came fear – fear of rain, mud, grime and general muck to destroy its looks, splash and stain my leathers. I watched the skies each morning I rode to work, fearing rain, massive puddles, and general calamity. It pretty much overshadowed the unmitigated joy I should have been feeling. Then, as I looked out of the office window at my bike that day, I saw, in slow motion, the rain start to fall and the first drops splash the pristine paintwork, creating water stains all over it. Dust flew up from the ground as it was pummelled by the rain and settled into great dirty damp marks on the chrome……..my heart sank and in my head, I heard an ear-splitting, NOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Funny thing is the ride home that evening was amazing. I roared through puddles and took the long route home. I grinned from ear to ear, and for the first time truly experienced the freedom the machine had originally promised. The fear had fallen away – the machine could be washed. And, it was meant to be used and enjoyed. Once I felt that freedom the rain gave me, it turned into an amazing, exhilarating, summer, albeit rather wet and mucky!
I looked at the seat board again, and thought about what this was meant to be – and how it would be; it would be used to within an inch of its life – it will get knocks and bumps, wear and tear; it will develop its own character and patina; it will, because of all this, become more and more beautiful. Every mark would be a story, a moment in time, captured…..
Cliche – Greenwood Ash and Yew Armchair – Jason Robards
I left some of those marks, those stories I cannot read, knowing I would add to them in the future. As it turns out, it was fortunate that I did. While waxing, the evening light caught it and I noticed for the first time, in the centre of the seat, some imperfections, like ripples – they looked like waves washing against the warm inviting sandy shore of a deserted island. As I looked, and the light shifted, I saw them caress and stroke. And, as they fell back, the light shifting some more, they seemed to linger and reluctantly release the sanctuary of the island as they returned to the vast ocean once more.
The chair, the island to which I will retreat with a good book, is complete. The first night of its existence it stood next to the fire and looked as though it had always been there. It is where it should be.
The first book to be read in it?
The Big Sleep – a reminder of a day, long ago………another story.
– What is it?
– The stuff dreams are made of.
The Maltese Falcon