Craftsmanship

My grandfather was a craftsman. He was an accomplished woodworker. The president of our state woodworking guild, he had multiple lathes in his shop, and numerous heavy tools that he built himself, sturdy, out of wood. His bandsaw, wood. His router table, wood. Drum and spindle sanders, wood.He had a lathe on which he could turn huge columns for the Elks Lodge. He had a tiny lathe on which he could turn intricate, delicate ornaments for the Christmas trees at our state house and even the United States Capitol Building!He built Governor Atiyeh’s desk. He was known for unique, one of a kind spinning wheels. He built a carousel quality rocking horse for us, his grandchildren and he filled his home with ornate woodworking details. Hidden compartments in the mantel. Secret stereo cabinets. That sort of thing.His shop was warm and eclectic. In addition to his original creations he restored antique furniture, which is a skill beyond. It’s one thing to make something beautiful. It’s quite another to fix something beautiful that someone else built with their ways and their tools and make it literally as good as new.There was a whole wall full of custom jigs that he had built for various pieces of antique furniture. The workshop smelled like a hundred kinds of wood plus his cigarettes—which he didn’t think anyone could smell.A cork board in his little office was covered in business cards, the currency of a businessman of the 1970’s, the 1980’s. It also had a hundred little pins in the shape of a drop of blood. One for every time he had given blood to the Red Cross over the years.A laborer by nature and a dairyman by trade and training, my grandfather was, for his last decades, a craftsman. I didn’t know him nearly well enough. There was tension in our family relationships and we never found each other’s deepnesses before he died.My first graphic designer is a craftsman. He’s out there, crafting still. He and I became fast friends shortly after I began as a businessman, and as a result of our friendship I have always had an outsized graphical presence as a company. Even now, he’s moved far away, took a good job, I know what graphic craftsmanship looks like because of him. I know who to hire. And who not to. He taught me what to look for. I have had exceptional graphic design, right down through the years.Which is a handy skill, because I am not a Craftsman. In some ways I wish I was. I have certainly tried to be over the years, but you guys, I’m just not.I do crafty things. I am not an unskilled person, not by a long shot. No self deprecation here. I can be honest and not betray my value for humility.I have built things out of wood that are functional as well as lovely. I have an eye for odd materials and how they might look with other materials.I can, after twenty years’ practice, make a mean cup of coffee. I can steam milk and pour beautiful latte art. I can do stuff.But here, now, I can admit that I am a generalist. I am a jack of all trades.Personally, my own sense of craftsmanship lies in spotting and managing craftsmanship. I’m a good collector of things, and I often know what things complement a company, a product, a recipe, a design project. And I think admitting that I’m not really a craftsman is the first step to developing it as a part of my personhood.And I do want to develop a greater sense of craftsmanship in my life. A greater value for it.A builder I know builds tract homes. Endless, boring, cheap. He would say that he’s providing a product for which there is demand, but if I’m honest I’m very sorry that there’s a demand for such a thing. I’m sorry for the place we find ourselves in as a society where cheaply built equals good.Malvina Reynolds sings a song, Little Boxes.Little boxes, on the hillside. Little boxes made of ticky-tacky, little boxes on the hillside, little boxes all the same. There’s a green one and a pink one, a blue one and a yellow one and they’re all made out of ticky-tacky and they all look just the same.My granddad, the accomplished woodworker, used to sing that song.It’s about the devastating sameness of modernity and the boxes we find ourselves in. The boxes we put ourselves in, sometimes, but often times the boxes we’re expected to climb into by others. And the people in the houses all went to the universities, where they were put in boxes, and they came out all the same.It’s a critique of society’s willingness to default to the path of least resistance. It’s a song about settling.Another builder I know is a craftsman. He builds structures that are lovely and customized to their use case, and more importantly, structures that will stand up to the test of time. They are more expensive, though not unreasonably so. The biggest difference between these builders is the thought that both they and their customers put into the spaces they create and dwell in.So. Here we are at the end of my first free-wheeling essay with no card. No anchor. And which is it, I’m still sort of wondering? I have spent the essay telling you I’m not a craftsman and have now convinced myself that I may be.I am naturally a generalist, a tradesman, a doer. A collector of craftsmanship. Like my grandfather’s corkboard I have amassed a huge team of people upon whom I can call.My espresso machine was purchased new in 2012 and has essentially been on for 24 hours a day since then. Day in, day out, it is warm and ready to produce. It was built by hand in Florence, Italy. I am astounded at how little maintenance and repair it’s required over the years. Craftsmanship. Quality. It’s ended up being much less expensive than a cheaper machine would have been. The countertops in my coffee shop are concrete. With help from a couple of friends, my wife and I built them by hand. We designed them, we formed them, supported them, we poured and polished them, all us, all on our own. They have survived daily commercial use for thirteen years!Our signage, hand painted, classic, colorful and simple and strong. No backlighting, no plastic. Just aluminum and paint and good natured craftsmanship from a local sign painter.We have a four panel mural that is wholly our own. Again, produced by someone wonderful and local.The list goes on. I am a collector of craftsmanship. My collection is rich. It takes someone putting it together. It takes the farmer drawing lambs into the barn, the gun shearer gathering wool, it takes the person laboriously sitting at my grandfather’s spinning wheel, spinning carded wool into yarn. And it takes the weaver, mixing colors and textures to create patterns. A tapestry is not usually made by just one person.Devaluing our contribution is a trap. Devaluing others’ is a trap. One I seem almost eager to fall into at times.As has become a theme in my writing I must again acknowledge the benefit of community participation. The joy of teamsmanship, even over craftsmanship. Get full access to Nick Walton at nickfromoregon.substack.com/subscribe