It's a memoir incorporating fine nature writing and reflections on the craft of woodworking, but I devoured it as if it were a novel--the ticking clock of financial ruin hangs over the story of Robinson's attempt to make a living as a bespoke furniture maker.
Robinson's reverence for wood is familiar to me, as the wife of a woodworker who reacts to painting most wood as a parent would react to dipping their child in acid.
I too learned to appreciate the hidden beauty in wood during a stint at our wood splitter. It was like a treasure hunt--each chunk split might reveal some hidden beauty.
I loved the book for its attention to nature, to the camaraderie of a working shop, to the relationship between father and son, husband and wife, and to the importance of hand-crafted, one of a kind work in this increasingly homogenized world.
Highly recommended.
You can check out Robinson's work HERE and be sure not to miss his father's amazing wood carvings HERE.
4 comments:
I'm grateful that such people still exist. As for painting wood, aren't you glad John consented to painting the blue bench? 😀 I always envision that bench when I think of your farm.
I remember growing up with wood furniture which was all painted, and then there was suddenly mahogany with it's glory in the dining room.
Oh, no. Another book I really want to read. As if I weren't already practicing tsundoku to the max. (Tsundoku, the Japanese term for the art of collecting books and letting them accumulate for the joy of it. Not to be confused with sudoko, the game. ) i.e. I have mastered the art of the to-be-read pile (aka, the emotional support stack).
We have a number of blue benches--made of treated wood. That, he allows to be painted. That and plywood and pine.
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