Until it Breaks
I believe my endeavor to become a craftsman (or Craftsman as I emphasize in my own mind, even though seeing it on the page only reminds me of Sears Roebuck), is very self-centered. Not necessarily selfish, but not noble either.
Furniture made by hand is not a necessity for anyone, and whatever intangible, but hopefully subliminally attractive nuances my act of building imbues the pieces with are probably lost when it is anonymous. When I am present in the beholder’s mind, it colors their appreciation of the design and craftsmanship through both positive and negative filters. If it is someone who understands how high I esteem precision, they will look at the joinery and judge it in that light. If they know the wood was salvaged, they might look for nail holes and other evidence of its previous life. But if the viewer does not know any of the piece’s backstory, where the materials came from, what previous pieces have created the base for its design or even who I am, they are only left with the piece. The piece that is right in front of them at that exact moment. That leaves me with two possible avenues, broadly speaking: 1. Design the pieces in a manner that I can feel good about and the whole world be damned, or 2. Punch people in their faces with my awesome design skills.
It is hard to deny the desire to bloody some noses, but I find when I am looking at work by other furniture makers/designers, those that try to clock me with cleverness I immediately close off to and those that are happy just to live inside their own logic are the pieces I respond to. Maybe I create an image of the person who built the piece, even if I have no idea who it was. When I see a really crazy coffee table with curved legs that nearly defy gravity and sense, I see an attention-starved, self-centered egotist who I wouldn’t want to talk to for five minutes. When I see a very careful, by the numbers set of drawers I see a retired gentleman using his time how he wants. If there are painted embellishments or mixed media on the piece I see a woman artist who loves furniture, but does not have that very male fundamentalism about wood for its own sake. I don’t know who people see when they see my work any more than I know what people think of me when they see me from across the street. That does not keep me from worrying about it anyway.
I guess my two choices are false. When I am thinking about a piece, designing it, I am aware of how I would see it if I didn’t know I had built it. Or rather who I would see. Does that mean my furniture is on the same level of self-expression as the clothes I pick out or the way I do my hair? Great.
