George Nakashima’s lovely 1981 memoir, The Soul of a Tree, is a beautifully produced and photographed book, a spiritual ode to the beauty of wood and the importance of craft, and, in a way, a window into the world of 20th century high-end studio furniture. If you like the live-edge furniture that Nakashima pioneered and his related designs, this book is a treasure trove of photos and info.

Nakashima was born in Spokane, Washington in 1905. He tells of his childhood and teen years exploring the mountains and woods, becoming an Eagle Scout, earning a master’s degree in architecture from MIT, travels and work in New York, Paris, Tokyo, and Pondicherry, India. He also was forced into an internment camp during part of the second World War as were others of Japanese ancestry. These experiences provide the backdrop for what I would call his spiritual reverence for the beauty of wood and craft and his design sensibility as well as the setup of the workshop he established in New Hope, Pennsylvania in the 1940s.

The book has three main parts: the first covers his childhood through the establishment of his workshop in New Hope; the second focuses on trees and wood; and the third describes his process of turning a tree into a beautiful piece of furniture. That last section is chock-full of lovely photos of his work.

While the book isn’t really about how to build furniture, he does drop in a few tidbits of advice for woodworkers, some of which cover highly contested ground. A few examples. He only used plainsawn solid wood. Absolutely no veneer as solid wood is, according to Nakashima, honest and real. (Some period furniture makers and those building in that style might disagree with him.) Wood should always be hand-planed rather than sanded, except for highly figured wood or burls, for which sanding is ok. On the divide between hand tool and machine woodworking, Nakashima says machines are fine if the craft person is controlling the work’s progress. Nakashima also emphasizes the importance of taking the time to let the character of a piece of wood influence the design of what it is to become, especially important in the realm of live-edge furniture.

He decries much modern furniture – dowel joints are out (probably Festool Dominos as well) though Nakashima died in 1990 before Dominos became a thing. In the realm of architecture and housing, he also decries stud walls put together with hammer and nails because there is no real joinery involved in that type of construction. 

I really enjoyed the Nakashima book and would recommend it to anyone interested in his style of furniture or, more generally, 20th century design. That said, the studio furniture stream in which Nakashima worked—that of the sole-proprieter craft person working in a pastoral setting to achieve high design ideals—has come in for criticism. Edward Cooke, Jr, a prof of decorative arts at Yale, wrote an article for Chipstone’s American Furniture that criticized much about the 20th century studio furniture movement, focusing primarily on Sam Maloof, James Krenov, and Wendell Castle (but also Warren Esherick and George Nakashima). Essentially, that that movement was not as authentic as it appears and that “pastoralism and an emphasis on the aura of craftsmanship often mask commercialism.” For what it’s worth, Cooke traces the focus on pastoralism and hand craftsmanship back to the 19th century ideas of William Morris. He also suggests that this Morris-inspired focus has led many in the high-end design world to ignore a lot of very good work that didn’t fit that mold.

There’s a lot there in the Cooke article and, trust me, that whole debate can get very academic very quickly. While that surely isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, you might find it of interest (I did) to spend a little time thinking about where some of our ideas about what constitutes good furniture and good craftsmanship come from.

Nakashima’s book is available on Amazon at this link.

The Cooke article is available on Chipstone’s website at this link.

This book is a lot of different things all in one. It is a story about top-flight design and craftsmanship in furniture and what it takes to achieve that. It is a story about the beauty and allure of wood. It is a coming-of-age story, including a difficult dad relationship and later reconciliation. It is a story about life in rural Scotland. And, it is a love story. 

I read this book a couple of years ago and really liked it, but I wasn’t sure that it had enough woodworking content for our newsletter. But, two different members mentioned the book to me. I read it again and changed my mind. So, here’s a bit about it to entice anyone who might be interested.

The book is a memoir, with Callum Robinson telling his story. He grew up in rural Scotland, with a father who was a cabinetmaker and carver. Based on his own description, Callum was an awkward kid and had his share of struggles growing up. He worked through all of that and became one of the UK’s top furniture designers and makers. His studio has done work for some very high-end brands and places, including Burberry, Bentley Motors, Johnnie Walker, The Glasgow School or Art, and Edinburgh Castle. It wasn’t an easy journey to the top, with many setbacks and many high-stress, near catastrophic moments along the way. The story about developing as a furniture designer is woven together with rich descriptions of rural Scotland and a beautiful tale about his family, especially his wife and collaborator in design. Near the end of the book, he also offers advice on how to get started and make it professionally in the furniture world for anyone thinking about that.

Turns out that in addition to his furniture work, Robinson is a very good writer, and his memoir has received wide-ranging plaudits. The book is beautifully written and an easy and fast read.

You can see some of their furniture work at Method Studio at this link. 

Ingrained is widely available and at Amazon in many formats.

This book—the latest from Mortise and Tenon—is a blend of two distinct strands. The first makes the well-known argument expressing regret that industrialization displaced skilled handcraft. The second is an appeal to individuals to incorporate craft into their daily lives along with five projects that can be entry points into a daily practice of handcraft as well as a discussion of essential tools. Warning: This book prompted a strong reaction on my part so this review includes more personal opinion than have recent entries for Woodworkers’ Bookshelf.

I liked the book and found it an engaging read (though be prepared for some philosophy of craft and technology). At the same time, I had two more negative reactions to the book. First, I found that the two strands—regret about industrialization and the appeal to incorporate craft into one’s daily life—not that well connected. Both work well on their own merits, though I didn’t find the philosophical discussion to be a compelling setup for the argument for handcraft in daily life (said by a hybrid woodworker who enjoys using both hand and power tools). Put another way, the combination of the two strands felt forced.

My other big concern is with the argument about industrialization regret (veering a bit away from woodworking here). In particular, I found the discussion an unbalanced view of economic history. Without a doubt, the industrial revolution led to huge changes in daily living and the loss of much that was valuable, including pride in work and skill as tasks previously done by skilled artisans could now be done by less skilled workers operating a machine. The book provides many powerful and poignant examples of that and highlights the industrial drudgery and exploitation that ensued. However, the book completely neglects what was gained by industrialization. In the early 1800s—arguably the peak of British and American furniture craft—only the very wealthy could afford the type of handcrafted furniture we now see in museums (and that EMGW members make). Most people in that period had little furniture in their homes and what they had often was crudely made.

More generally, typical incomes and living standards were much lower in that earlier period. For example, in 1811 a fancy card table retailed for about $24.50. With average weekly compensation of a production worker of about $3.00 (assuming a 60-hour workweek), it would take that average worker more than eight weeks of work to afford the table. Not a purchase most such workers would make. Translating the cost of that 1811 table to 2025 dollars yields about $620. At today’s average weekly compensation (assuming just a 40-hour workweek), a typical worker could make that outlay with about two days of work. So, while it’s true that industrialization changed the world and important things were lost, there also were tremendous benefits. I, for one, would not choose to go back to the world of 1800.

All that said, the book’s highlighting of the benefits of incorporating more craft into their lives absolutely rings true to me and, I suspect, to most EMGW members. That’s why we do what we do. Perhaps we can agree that that makes sense on an individual level but not so much as a vision for organizing a national economy.

PS – happy to provide cites for calculations to anyone interested.

Two disparate items to highlight this month. 

First, I saw a notice in SAPFM's Pins and Tales that the John Brown House Museum in Providence opened an exhibition based on the book Mahogany: The Cost of Luxury in Early America by Jennifer Anderson, a history prof at SUNY Stony Brook. (The Brown of the house is the Brown of Brown University.) I haven't visited the house yet but it sounds great if you like house museums with period furniture and the associated history. I have read the book, which describes the historical and cultural context around the explosion in the use of mahogany in the 18th century as wealthy American colonists became enamored with the beauty of the wood and woodworkers with its workability. It is quite a sobering read, especially for a woodworker who has used mahogany in a number of builds. The 18th century surge in demand for mahogany led to extensive logging in the Caribbean, with slave labor in doing much of the work in brutal conditions. Moreover, because the trees were difficult to cultivate on a plantation and were scattered throughout tropical forests, the trees were "hunted," felled, dragged out, and shipped to high-end markets. That process devastated forest environments  and painfully disrupted the lives of the indigenous people who were there before. The damage persists to this day, with new world mahoganies threatened with extinction, with logging regulations and bans on mahoganies, and, accordingly, with ongoing concerns about the provenance of any board and what damage was done to obtain it. The book talks about all of that, weaving together social and political history, trading logistics, economics, and more. It's a good read. At the same time, the story is disturbing enough that this furniture maker plans to stay away from mahogany and stick to other hardwoods (though, admittedly, after finishing a current period piece of furniture -- bought the wood before reading the book).

Second, and something completely different, I came across a Ben Strano Fine Woodworking video on climb cutting with a router (routing in the direction in which the spinning bit would pull the router often thought of as very dangerous). It's one of the best descriptions of how to use a handheld router that I've seen -- although I've done plenty of work with a router, still learned a new trick from the video. Despite the title, the video doesn't say a lot about how to climb cut safely, but it does link to a very good Fine Woodworking article from July/August 2011 by Chris Gochnour that describes how/when that can be done safely.