What Do You See?
My Introduction to Design
Originally printed in the journal of the Guild of NH Woodworkers
Just below the sidewalk on West Prince Street in Lower Manhattan, there is a life-sized clay turtle, which can be seen through a metal grate. A few chosen rocks and bonsai plants, perfectly arranged, surround the turtle. For two weeks this interesting discovery caused me to extend my walk from Bond Street to the subway station on 5th avenue. It was also enough to distract me from seeing the window display of shoji screens, lanterns, gates and an accompanying sign which read ‘Kai Ito Woodwork’. This apartment-sized storefront flanked the subterranean garden. When I finally did see the window and sign, I was compelled to knock on the door. After a brief wait I was greeted by a round-faced gentleman with an almost shaven head. He looked very tired and asked me what I wanted. “Work. Do you ever need any assistance? I’m a woodworker and I’m struck by the pieces in your window.” He did not invite me in, but suggested that I come to his workshop on West 39th street tomorrow and we could talk.
The next afternoon within the workshop, I found myself giving up my lucrative job of the past year – working in a high-end veneer shop – for a position with Mr. Ito making shoji screens for $8 an hour. For the next twelve months I did not have the time to wonder why. The question has never surfaced since.
Although there was no dust collection system and the days rarely ended at 5, the learning never stopped. In addition to screens, we built square chairs with tatami mat seats, gates, tubs and tables. There were always very clear drawings, never dimensions – only rough measurements of the space the piece was to occupy. But the drawings served only as an introductory point of reference. The design process gained momentum with the milling of material and continued right through assembly.
“Place the rail next to the stile. Tape the legs to the seat. Hold the stretcher in place. What do you see? Can you see that this member is too big in relation to that? Plane it down and place it there again. Does the top look thick enough for it’s length? If a piece looks too weak, it probably is. Beyond solid joinery and proportions, there is little else that is needed. Why did you cut that taper? Does it make the piece stronger? Does it make it better? How? If you execute the work simply and cleanly, there is no need for embellishment. It is enough. This is not cosmetic carpentry that we are doing.”
Sometimes I imagined that my eyes were just not sharp enough to see some of the subtle differences made by planing another few passes off a member or by chamfering a piece with a single pass of the plane. It was barely perceptible. Mr. Ito would frequently cut a piece to length without measuring. It always fit, and this reinforced self-doubts surrounding my ability to see. But when I placed one of my finished pieces next to one of Mr. Ito’s, I could see quite clearly the differences that these subtleties brought about.
We frequently employed a simple dovetail joint, (one tail between two half pins), on cases for shelves or on bed frames, even on boards as wide as 10”. From one of Mr. Ito’s previous coworkers I learned that it was favorable to place vertical members in their original orientation, (the bottom of the tree towards the earth, the top upwards), if they can be identified in the board.
From the beginning I imagined that sharpening would occupy a lot of our time. How could I have foreseen hand planes with replaceable cutting edge inserts and ryuba saws with disposable blades? There was a small wooden tub full of water and water stones with a board fixed across it’s top. Chisels were sharpened here, quickly.
It was soon apparent that the sharpening of a discerning and critical eye was as important as the honing of our planes and chisels. It was clearly the strong characteristics of form and dimensions in Mr. Ito’s work that drew his clientele to him. While each woodworker might come up with different answers, being able to develop questions which help you to look at the work and determine if the design has succeeded in the expression and function that you intend is a valuable tool worth maintaining.
Mr. Ito’s get-it-done ethic seemed to grow out of his appreciation for his clientele, to whom he felt equal measures of respect and responsibility. But as a wave of Financial District renters swept through midtown, Kai Ito was forced out of his 39th street workshop. He moved out to Long Island and I returned to my shop in New Hampshire. The time was right, as my wife’s medical residency in the Bronx was nearing completion.
The construction and design of shoji screens affords a great opportunity for learning joinery and design. There are generally a couple of dozen mortise and tenon joints and an equal number of half lap joints in a single screen, and screens are often made in multiples. Installing tracks and trim can provide the opportunity for many other diverse types of joints. Repetition is the best practice. Simple forms with backbone and characteristics emphasizing strength and function, while often not as sensational or dazzling as highly detailed surfaces or alluring curves, can none the less be as reassuring as a smile from a very old friend.
One can surely cultivate such skills on their own, but a generous designer willing to take the time to include you in the design process can supply one of the most useful and valuable tools a woodworker can possess: good questions.
What do you see?
The next afternoon within the workshop, I found myself giving up my lucrative job of the past year – working in a high-end veneer shop – for a position with Mr. Ito making shoji screens for $8 an hour. For the next twelve months I did not have the time to wonder why. The question has never surfaced since.
Although there was no dust collection system and the days rarely ended at 5, the learning never stopped. In addition to screens, we built square chairs with tatami mat seats, gates, tubs and tables. There were always very clear drawings, never dimensions – only rough measurements of the space the piece was to occupy. But the drawings served only as an introductory point of reference. The design process gained momentum with the milling of material and continued right through assembly.
“Place the rail next to the stile. Tape the legs to the seat. Hold the stretcher in place. What do you see? Can you see that this member is too big in relation to that? Plane it down and place it there again. Does the top look thick enough for it’s length? If a piece looks too weak, it probably is. Beyond solid joinery and proportions, there is little else that is needed. Why did you cut that taper? Does it make the piece stronger? Does it make it better? How? If you execute the work simply and cleanly, there is no need for embellishment. It is enough. This is not cosmetic carpentry that we are doing.”
Sometimes I imagined that my eyes were just not sharp enough to see some of the subtle differences made by planing another few passes off a member or by chamfering a piece with a single pass of the plane. It was barely perceptible. Mr. Ito would frequently cut a piece to length without measuring. It always fit, and this reinforced self-doubts surrounding my ability to see. But when I placed one of my finished pieces next to one of Mr. Ito’s, I could see quite clearly the differences that these subtleties brought about.
We frequently employed a simple dovetail joint, (one tail between two half pins), on cases for shelves or on bed frames, even on boards as wide as 10”. From one of Mr. Ito’s previous coworkers I learned that it was favorable to place vertical members in their original orientation, (the bottom of the tree towards the earth, the top upwards), if they can be identified in the board.
From the beginning I imagined that sharpening would occupy a lot of our time. How could I have foreseen hand planes with replaceable cutting edge inserts and ryuba saws with disposable blades? There was a small wooden tub full of water and water stones with a board fixed across it’s top. Chisels were sharpened here, quickly.
It was soon apparent that the sharpening of a discerning and critical eye was as important as the honing of our planes and chisels. It was clearly the strong characteristics of form and dimensions in Mr. Ito’s work that drew his clientele to him. While each woodworker might come up with different answers, being able to develop questions which help you to look at the work and determine if the design has succeeded in the expression and function that you intend is a valuable tool worth maintaining.
Mr. Ito’s get-it-done ethic seemed to grow out of his appreciation for his clientele, to whom he felt equal measures of respect and responsibility. But as a wave of Financial District renters swept through midtown, Kai Ito was forced out of his 39th street workshop. He moved out to Long Island and I returned to my shop in New Hampshire. The time was right, as my wife’s medical residency in the Bronx was nearing completion.
The construction and design of shoji screens affords a great opportunity for learning joinery and design. There are generally a couple of dozen mortise and tenon joints and an equal number of half lap joints in a single screen, and screens are often made in multiples. Installing tracks and trim can provide the opportunity for many other diverse types of joints. Repetition is the best practice. Simple forms with backbone and characteristics emphasizing strength and function, while often not as sensational or dazzling as highly detailed surfaces or alluring curves, can none the less be as reassuring as a smile from a very old friend.
One can surely cultivate such skills on their own, but a generous designer willing to take the time to include you in the design process can supply one of the most useful and valuable tools a woodworker can possess: good questions.
What do you see?
D. Capodestria, 2005
