The End of the Accidental "Artist"

I took apart my studio yesterday. It began it's humble life as a workshop but fate dealt it a cruel twist that led to its demise.



When Andrea and I returned from Southeast Asia, we rented a little place in an old mansion on 13th East near the University of Utah. We needed furniture. A quick trip to Fred Meyer and later RC Willey revealed that the Cambodians were onto something with the floor mats, which for 10 bucks serve as a bed, dinette set, desk, sofa, coffee table, and yoga mat. After our Bishop came to visit us and he nearly ripped the seat of his suit sitting on the floor, I resolved to return from my Siamese daydream and get some real American furniture. Preferring to save my hard earned cash for an upcoming trip to climb volcanoes in Ecuador, I knew I would have to improvise rather than purchase said furniture.



Our first couch was three logs, which were cut-offs of beams going into a house I was building in Park City. They were all different heights so my first furniture project looked like an old wharf piling minus the damp seagulls. Now our bishop, if he ever came pack might get a little pine gum back there, but at least he would be off the floor. Things got a little better in the Utah years but not much. Pine remained the material of choice and my hand held Skil saw seemed to do as well as any table saw. This era was defined by the woodworking that I learned from my dad: "The cheapest way is the best way but don't spare the epoxy!"



Once established in Philadelphia we no longer needed much furniture, as our first home here was only big enough for Andrea, myself and two small canoes. Now incorrectly considering myself to be some sort of academic, I started to read books about furniture making. Being bored with studying feet all the time, I made a tiny workbench for the apartment and taught myself to hand cut dovetails. Coincidentally an art gallery that I walked past going to and from school sold works by old masters George Nakashima and Wharton Esherick. Another exhibited contemporary studio furniture that blew my mind. We also lived close enough to walk to the annual Philadelphia furniture show, which is arguably one of the best shows around for artistic woodwork. By the end of the year Andrea decided to move us to a bigger place now that my tiny workbench meant that she had to live out on the porch.



Our new house had a large empty basement that I took over as my workshop. Another benefit of the new house in suburban Philadelphia is that expensive hardwoods grow like weeds and neighbors were constantly dragging logs of walnut, dogwood, and curly maple to the curb to be hauled off to a landfill. I routinely cruised the 'hood on my bike for potential table legs or stretchers in the form of black cherry yard trash. Slowly our three-bedroom home filled with some nice pieces inspired by real artist woodworkers and some things that were clearly experiments gone wrong but too useful to throw away. I tried to create an aesthetic in which my furniture was both beautiful and useful. I will probably never be able to go back to pine after the sweet smell of fresh cut cherry defined the early experience in that basement workshop.



Every neighborhood has at least one, that nosy lady without enough of her own business to satiate herself. Ours just happened to be on the board for the local art show. Every time I was in the backyard or garage finishing some furniture she happened by and stayed to talk. Eventually she forced her way inside to see more of my woodwork. "You really need to be in The Lansdowne Art Show,” she too frequently remarked. I finally caved in more to get her off my back than anything. Somehow I imagined that it would be more like a county fair where the artists bring in items for display rather than to aggressively market them. Incorrectly I assumed that most artists worked more for the love of making beauty and making some sort of statement rather than just the Benjamin’s. Boy, was I wrong.



My first art show was very awkward. Not really knowing what to expect Andrea and I took cues from the others near by and hurriedly came up with prices for the items we had brought. Our prices were in no way reflective of the cost to make plus the time or any other sane formula to value things. We just picked a number that we hoped was too high for anyone to pay without seeming ridiculous. Every piece was something that we were using currently in our home. It was a private yard sale where we really did not want to sell anything. I was confused when the first several people asked for my business card. I'm not a businessman; I'm an artist I kept thinking to myself. I admit that I was very flattered and did have a great time with the entire town ogling my stuff.



Towards the end of the show two of my pieces sold for $1500. No one was more surprised than I. I did not recognize it then, but this was the beginning of the end. I got lost in the artist woodworker gig I had going. It was tons of fun in the beginning just to see how far I could make it go. My good friends Chuck and Tara helped out by giving me tons of support in addition to real assistance with things such as a logo and business cards. It was like free money in the early days. I had fun making the furniture, and then I got paid for it. Andrea and I quickly categorized this windfall as "fun money" and used it for toys and vacations. I thought I had the greatest thing going.




Black Cherry when cut with sharp blades smells sweet and there is nothing like it in the world. If those sharp blades start to dull or are pushed too fast, they produce heat which begins to burn the sap. It's like when the delicious smell of baking cookies becomes a horrific stench if they are burned. That's how my workshop started to smell. I was rushing to get production up. Jobs that used to be pleasurable became annoyingly mundane. I started using my beautiful hand tools less and my power tools more. While hand tools are much slower, they are also much quieter and produce less mess. Using hand tools is like a peaceful meditation where power tools are jarringly noisy. It's the difference between a bicycle ride through the country in a fresh spring breeze and a commute through west Philly on a muggy day during rush hour without AC.



I kept plugging away as the things I made became less artistic but more profitable. I focused on production and making things that I knew the customers wanted rather than what I felt was both beautiful and useful. I wasted an entire Christmas season sanding infernal cutting boards that gift givers would not stop buying. No Christmas cheer for me that year, just the taste of burned walnut in the back of my throat for about 2 months. I began to loathe time in the shop. I just wanted to get outside where I belonged. I wanted to go back to those volcanoes in Ecuador and throw all of my tools into the crater. Luckily I got an easy out... With residency finishing up this spring I boxed all of my tools up really tight (you know for the move...) I have even convinced Andrea that we should rent for the first year or more in Kentucky (read: no workshop in a rental!) I have convinced her that this is a sound financial decision but all I really want is to be free of the "studio." She keeps trying to remind me how much I love woodworking but we all know she just wants a few knockoff Nakashima conoid chairs for the dining room...



I do enjoy the smell of fresh cut cherry shavings coming out of a razor-sharp hand plane to give focus to a quiet meditation in a silent workshop. I love seeing my wife rock our children to sleep in a chair I made myself. I like being able to share things I have made with friends and family. I might even uncrate the tools in Kentucky after I climb a few 5.12s. What I will not do is masquerade as an artist while trying to sell junk to fools with too much cash. No “studio” in my future…