A project idea has taken hold, a concept has developed, and maybe you even have scale drawings. This could come to fruition but your jointer isn’t wide enough or your bandsaw isn’t tall enough. Or the boards you found for the project aren’t quite consistent in color and figure. Or your shop isn’t big enough, or you don’t have a real shop at all. And you really don’t have the time anyway.

It’s always something.

Always, because making real things is done in the real world with all its unsavory limitations. The wood is never quite right. There is always one more tool that would probably make the work a breeze. A wide belt sander? Sure, that will solve everything. Everything, that is, until the next limitation comes along.

Make it anyway. It won’t be perfect or just the way you want it, but it will be. Until then, it is nothing.

Let’s take an example from music history. What do you do if you are an organist renowned throughout Europe, later to be recognized as one of the greatest composers in history, you basically get canned from your job and move to a place where you have no access to an organ? It must have been like a woodworker with no planes! Well, I guess if you are Johann Sebastian Bach, you deal with the limitations and use the resources available to you to make stuff like this:

Nearly 300 years later, the lack of a right hand does not stop Adrian Anantawan from playing these works. [The sample heard in most of the clip is from Partita #3 in E for solo violin, 3rd movement.]

So, what then, when the work is done? If the piece is the product of a sincere effort, it becomes its own point of reference, freed from the maker’s expectations, limitations, and nervous influence. Never perfect, but excellent, good, or just fair, it is nonetheless now on its own.

It is too late for substantive changes. This is just as well, because now everything hopefully seems right unto itself, at whatever level the work was done, including the imperfections and doubts, almost as if it was meant to be that way.

Deal with limitations, do the best you can, and accept the result for what it is. Make something.

It’s always something – until the thing is.

Fellow craftspeople, shop dwellers, makers of things, maybe you can relate to this.

Tuesday afternoon was fun time at 13 years old. School let out at noon, and not long after, my friend and I would meet up at our fishing stream to catch sunfish, crappies, and perch. There was little art to it, just basic tackle, night crawlers, and red and white plastic bobbers. It was a decent way to spend youthful time.

My pal and I intermittently conjured ourselves to be real fishermen with serious skills, and more exotically, fly fishermen. We even earnestly tied a fair number of flies using some authentic materials, but with no real intent (or ability) to put them to use.

However, this kid stuff led me to borrow a book from the library that resonated so deeply with me that I never forgot it. A few years ago, while reminiscing about this, I used the internet along with a vague recollection of an oddity about the author’s name to locate a copy of Fly Fishing For Trout, by Richard Salmon, published in 1952.

As a young teen, it was my first encounter with the intricacies of how someone does something truly well, along with the driving passion. It stood in inspirational contrast to my naive efforts at fishing. I marveled at the author’s melding of scientific knowledge, meticulous attention to detail, and deep experience into superbly expert fishing skills. He described details of fish anatomy and physiology, subtleties of stream conditions, and nuances of equipment, all in the context of studied experience. This was serious stuff, even intimidating.

Perusing my copy now, I also appreciate the author’s peaceful, trusting tenor, and, nostalgically, the lack of today’s widespread ostentation.

I sensed then – and understand now – that this book reflected a deep desire in me – to simply do something very well. It is a joy for the soul to unboundedly immerse the mind, heart and hand in a meaningful pursuit.

No, I never took up fly fishing, but it sure is good to be in the woodshop.

From Richard Salmon, page 81: “For in fishing as in anything else, you must, if you are going to get results, have your heart in your work. The more joyous I am on a stream, the more enthusiastic, the heavier my creel. But to be happy and enthusiastic, I must believe in the fishing tools my hands control – must believe that I can work naturally, carefully, and well.”

Two projects, a small table and a wall cabinet, now distant memories from 25-30 years ago, occupied a considerable amount of my attention as I endeavored to advance my woodworking skills. They were moderately complex pieces. The table involved blind and through mortise and tenons, and curved legs. The cabinet involved multiple frame-and-panels, doors, drawers, partitions, and lots of dovetails.

The designs were pretty good, the wood selection was very good, and there was a decent amount of good workmanship including lots of clean joinery. Unfortunately, I eventually got stuck with some poor choices in several areas: coordinating the alignment of certain components, assembling parts with work left to be done that was then impossible to do well, delayed decisions on some joinery strategies, and poor selections for pre-finishing the panels in the cabinet.

I could not bring myself to finish these projects. Both lingered, partly assembled, in the shop for a long time because I also could not bring myself to destroy them. Yet, eventually, I did destroy both of them.

Why? It was not a matter of imperfections; all projects have those. It was because I knew these pieces would never have that fundamental rightness that produces joy. Further effort would be drudgery. My consolations were that I learned, and time would better be spent on work with real promise.

This sort of failure can come from a faulty or misunderstood concept, though not in these cases. Rather, in each, I did not understand a path to successfully putting all the aspects together to complete the piece, even though I successfully executed many individual tasks such as joinery. My craftsmanship, while pretty good in many respects, was naive. I could not put it all together, figuratively and literally.

This is the hardest aspect of a woodworking project – all the elements of design and execution must come together. One must map a clear, controlled path to achieve this. This path is ultimately based on a clear vision of a good design concept, and the insightful craftsmanship to carry out that vision.

I guess it is true of any endeavor, work or play – such as jobs, sports, and arts. It’s one thing to learn the components but quite another to put them together and make it flow. With woodworking, however, you see it all before you. There is no hiding, and you know it.

Next: So, what did I learn?

The American flag hangs at the top of my shop to remind me that creativity depends on freedom, which begets opportunity. And the best place for that is right here, supported by core American values. For this, I feel blessed.

May God bless America.

Happy woodworking.

The word count tool tells me that I have now written more than 100,000 words on this blog, enough to fill two average non-fiction books, in addition to posting more than 500 original photographs since starting in September 2008. At this milestone, I again say thank you, dear readers, for including Heartwood in your woodworking reading among the ever-growing multitude of choices online and in print. I hope this blog helps expand your technical understanding as well as your enjoyment of woodworking.

I still believe that blogging can share information in a fresh and nimble way unmatched by textbooks and magazines, often exploring areas that other media neglect. Topics can be covered briefly or, using the series format, at considerable length and depth. Moreover, it’s fun.

I will continue to offer content based on my hands-on woodworking experience – real-deal stuff “arising from the sawdust and shavings of my shop.” If there is a topic you would like to see covered, drop me an email and I’ll try to write on it, but only if I know what I’m talking about.

If you are at all inclined to add a comment on a post, please do! I wish there were more comments because they share knowledge and help me connect with readers. I must hold comments for moderation and close commenting 30 days after posting because though Akismet blocks 98-99% of the many thousands of spam comments, a substantial number get through and they are often ugly.

Also, please feel free to email me with your woodworking questions. I love this craft and want others to enjoy it too, so I especially like helping novice woodworkers get oriented and move on to building things.

As a personal update, I am recovering from recent shoulder surgery so I cannot do any woodworking for a while. I should eventually be fine, but in the meantime, oh, how I miss building stuff! This has also forced me to cancel the talk-demonstrations on drawer fitting and options for smoothing plane setups that I was scheduled to present in March at the Northeastern Woodworker’s Association annual Showcase event in New York.

The next series in the blog will be on my sharpening bench and setup which has undergone many revisions and refinements over the years.

As always, thanks for reading, and happy woodworking to you.

In a recent post on the Fine Woodworking website, FW Senior Editor Matt Kenney questioned if employing jigs and shortcuts to achieve excellent results constitutes “cheating” at woodworking. His emphatic answer is that the result, not the method, is what matters. He encourages each woodworker to unapologetically find the methods that work best for him to produce the furniture of his desire.

By and large, I agree with Matt. Judging from the numerous comments on the post, this question concerns many woodworkers.

But it got me thinking, is there cheating  of another sort in woodworking? I believe the answer is yes, there is.

Cheating in woodworking is pretending that what you made is better than you know it to be, or that it meets your standard when you know it really does not.

Honest craftsmanship, at whatever level, is a result consistent with an intention. It is not necessarily a precisely realized prediction of each procedure, or of each element of the design, but at least the concept, the core idea, of the piece should be successfully expressed. That, after all, was your purpose in building it.

Now, there is always some unpredictability, and thus risk, involved in craftwork because until the piece is completed, its full impact cannot be felt. In other words, despite all of a craftsman’s designing and workmanship, he never can fully grasp what he has gotten himself into until the piece is done and stands there before him.

You may have chosen to make a simple functional bookcase or a high-class cabinet. The piece may have involved a novel design that you were not sure would “work,” or may have pushed the limits of your skills.

In all cases, there is a reckoning that comes when the work is done.

Is the piece within the range of what you intended? Has your concept – your core idea – been expressed? If so, was it a good idea in the first place? And the workmanship: is it of such level to carry that expression? Put simply, did you make what you really wanted to?

I know if I did or did not. It’s not an absolute judgment, but there surely is a discernible threshold – an overall truth about the piece. Cheating in woodworking would be to kid myself about that.

Fortunately, there is no need to cheat. Just get a pencil, more wood, and sharpen your tools, including the one on your shoulders, and get back to work.

My recent hike in New Hampshire’s White Mountains prompted this thought.

As we attempt in our woodworking shops to make objects of some small beauty, I believe we are merely borrowing from the ultimate source of beauty, the Creator, to bring joy to us and to those who appreciate our work. That is truly happy woodworking, for which I am grateful.

Happy woodworking to you, dear readers.

Fresh designs are exciting to conceive and build. The effort and risk involved in developing a new design concept lead to a feeling of accomplishment when the work is done. By virtue of their novelty alone, such pieces draw attention, and tend to be called creative, imaginative, clever, or even brilliant. New interest is created, boredom is avoided, and challenges are met. Creativity expands.

Yet, if every project is fresh and different, when will you have a chance to refine your work? Most truly excellent work is a result of refinements of previous attempts at the same or similar idea. Such work builds upon a previous design concept by refining elements such as proportions, materials, textures, workmanship, and meaningful embellishments. The integration of the elements is also refined.

That’s how the best work comes about. It’s true of furniture, jokes, recipes, tools, music, and on and on. You have to work on something to make it better! Your work does not always have to be new and different. And as for “original,” I’m not sure there truly is such a thing. On the other hand, appreciating the value of refinement does not excuse working an idea to death, getting stale and unimaginative, complacency, or creative laziness.

As an example, look at the work of the late Sam Maloof. His iconic rocking chairs are the products of years of refinement of a core style concept, but his work is never boring. Still, early Maloof is not as good as later Maloof.

Another good study in refinement is Albert Sack’s Fine Points of Furniture books in which his keen eye identified the “good, better, best” of early American furniture and its features.

Now, here are some related bite-sized opinions for thought. The “arteests” and the arbiters of cool in some parts of the high-end craft world seem to reflexively give extra credit to work which is new and different, but often lack the attention span to extol work which is less flashy but has undergone sustained refinement. New is not automatically better. On the other hand, the approach from some corners (Architectural Digest?) seems to take it as axiomatic that the refined work of modern masters such as Maloof, Jere Osgood, and Silas Kopf cannot be as good as that of the 18th century masters. Oh, how I disagree with that!

In summary, while there is much value to fresh ideas, we should not forget the role of refinement in producing the best work.