artisan

Knifemaking: the things that are ours and the Notre L’affaire

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“But then I have always been somewhat of a square peg in a round hole.”

Cressida Cowell- How to Speak Dragonese

 

When I was five years old I had my first lesson in finding out that the world might not be built for me.  I was not in kindergarten yet because I had told my mother that numbers and letters had looked too hard for me.  Perhaps I really wasn’t ready, or perhaps I was just stubborn, but this would leave me a year older than all my classmates through my entire academic career.  So at five years old I was sitting with all the other five year old preschool kids who, for whatever reason, weren’t quite ready for kindergarten either.  It was around Thanksgiving time and we were making hand turkeys out of construction paper.  You are probably familiar with the process, where you trace your hand and your fingers become the tail feathers and your thumb becomes the head and then you cut the entire thing out and add all the plumage.   I was having an incredibly difficult time with it.  I couldn’t get my scissors to work and I had no idea why.

As it turns out I was, and still am, left-handed.  They had no left-handed scissors, and the poor ladies couldn’t explain why I was the only one who cut with my left hand.  The silver lining was that when I looked at the wall of hand turkeys for the next two weeks before we took them home I knew exactly which one was mine- the sort of mangled looking, Mattisse-inspired one with it’s shredded, soft edges and pastel color themes.  It might not have quite fit in, but that turkey belonged to me.

I think a major source of anxiety today comes from a pressure to fit in.  We are pack animals after all, social creatures, and there is a large degree of comfort and safety that comes with fitting in.  For whatever reason some of us just don’t fit.  Maybe our personal values don’t align with the metrics of what society calls success.  Maybe the things in the world that move us have been wrought and tempered in such a way that makes the mainstream feel incredibly dull and boring.  Maybe we were brought up in a fashion that causes us to question the rules and the people who make them.  Or perhaps our idiosyncrasies and the way we see the world simply makes others in the pack feel uncomfortable. 

Because the reality is that life is uncomfortable and existence is messy, and no amount of corporate team building exercises or ‘life is beautiful’ bumper stickers will change that fact.  The square pegs of the world know this, because things have probably always been uncomfortable.  The beauty of being a square peg that doesn’t fit into the circular opening of life is that you find a way of living that is unique and meaningful to you.  Usually that means crashing through more than a few romantic relationships, getting fired from a few jobs, making a whole lot of mistakes, and generally being a mess for awhile.

When you finally pop out on the other side of all that, you may find that what you’ve become is completely and totally your own, free of mimicry and imitation.   All those things that you’ve become- those belong to you and no one else.

(I taught myself to cut right-handed in elementary school to save myself and my teachers a lot of grief.  I cut better right-handed than I do left-handed.  You have to pick your battles.)

This knife was commissioned for a chef at a local restaurant by his girlfriend.  I love making knives for restaurant people- anyone who winds up in food service is totally a square peg.  In talking to the girlfriend, who works in hospitality, she told me that they were both a little crazy, which is part of what makes everything so interesting.  ‘Notre L’affaire’ roughly means ‘our thing’ in the sense of something intimate and personal, like a slightly rough-around-the-edges turkey made of construction paper hanging on a pre-school bulletin board.  You should always recognize and honor the things that are yours.

 

An 8″ chef in the German Style:

Hi-carbon American 1095 steel:

Profiled and drilled:

Into the forge:

Making sure everything is straight:

Grinding the bevels:

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a5882d54-3626-42c7-848a-b3b1a1c3a553

Hand sanding:

Satin finish:

An acid etch to help with corrosion resistance:

For the bolster we’ll make a material out of bow tie pasta:

After it gets smashed up and set in fiberglass resin…

…you get something like this:

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Texas Mesquite:

Glued:

The Notre L’affaire:

Knifemaking: a restoration

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“You didn’t get the quest you wanted, you got the one you could do.”
― Lev Grossman, The Magician King

Every so often our shop will get calls to put a new handle on an old knife.  We always make every effort to do as many of these as we can.  

The ability to make something broken work in the way that it once did is a virtue.  This is especially true when the something that was broken is special to someone.  In most instances it’s pretty easy to replace what was broken, but the sentiment becomes lost.  Whenever possible I always try to fix what is broken, especially in the shop.

I treat these repair jobs as an exercise in incorporating as many broken or discarded things as possible into the finished product- it gives something totally unique back to the client.   Our jobs as craftsmen are to give a voice to our materials, allowing them to speak for themselves.  Many times we don’t choose what comes to us but nonetheless it is our job to turn what comes our way into something beautiful.  Making something better than it was before-this is the goal of a skilled craftsman.  For those in the know, these are the things that put the color in our world.

A gentlemen contacted us about re-handling an old boning knife he got in the 1970’s.  It was an old Zwilling knife, made from good Solingen steel, with Zwilling’s proprietary ‘Friodur’ subzero tempering process.  The handle had cracked, as natural materials tend to do over the years.

This one was partial tang, meaning the metal in the handle doesn’t run the complete length of the handle:

First, we remove the old handle and the rivets:

For the handle we’re going to use Black Walnut, which was formerly a baseboard salvaged from an abandoned house in North Carolina:

To extend the tang, we’re going to use a fiberglass computer board spacer which I dug out of a dumpster at one of my workplaces.  Though it looks yellow, it will turn green as it’s polished:

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Drilling the rivet holes.  The black spacing material is a heavy plastic that came from an office mail separator:

This is the top of the handle, closest to the ricasso of the blade, of the belt sander at 40 grit:

Sanded from 60 to 800 grit:

Ready for glue up:

Glued and clamped:

Roughly profiled:

Shaped to the desired shape.  The rest of the work will be done by hand, starting with 80 grit sandpaper and going up to 2000 grit.

Finished, sealed, and oiled:

Always take the opportunity to create something beautiful.

Knifemaking: how I spent my summer vacation, and the Persuader, MkIII

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“Warrior,

The bite marks soon will heal.

Warriors do not forget how it feels”

Stepdad- Warrior (Jungles Pt. 2)

 

(This is the second part of a story.  You can read the first part here).

On a late afternoon in mid July of 2018, three weeks after I nearly removed two of my fingers on a table saw, I found myself sitting with my girlfriend in a an empty group physical therapy room in a wing of the orthopedic center that had performed my surgery.  My hand had been repaired: a third of my thumb amputated and my index finger wired together to fuse the shattered bones and blown-out joints into one piece.

I had been ordered to physical therapy by my surgeon for two-part treatment.  The first part was wound care.  This would ensure that everything healed as it was supposed to, with no infection or complications, and to keep scar tissue to a minimum. The second part was the actual physical therapy, to regain as much use as possible in my injured hand, which which was currently completely bandaged with only my pinky and ring finger exposed.

I didn’t protest.  Nobody really talks about the aftermath of surviving something awful.  It will take the fight right out of you.  There is a truckload of emotional baggage that comes after the ‘get well’ flowers have wilted, the care cards have been boxed away, and normal life begins to resume.  Bills pile up and normal work responsibilities resume, but you are still fragile and adjusting and most likely carrying the weight of trauma.  Despair, depression, and existential crises of a behemoth magnitude are very real aftermaths of life-altering health emergencies as well as the emotional, physical, and financial burdens contained therein.  All of this greatly lowers your resistance, and I found myself more than willing to do what I was told.

This included a mountain of paperwork filled with verbiage of responsible parties, guarantors, and out-of-pocket maximums, essentially telling me that I would be paying for all of this for a very long time.  My girlfriend filled most of this out for me because I couldn’t even button my pants at that point much less sign my name.

In this room filled with all sorts of proprietary rehabilitative contraptions, I was introduced to Steve, an orthopedic hand therapist and educated hillbilly from West Virginia.  He was assisted by Justin, a former football player and mammoth of a man who was getting a Masters in Occupational Health and working in the office for the summer.  Normally this therapy room would be filled with patients but as it was late in the afternoon, it was just the four of us.

I found out, firstly, that hand therapists was a career that existed, and secondly, and paradoxically, they were the kindest sadists I had ever met.  As we sat down to remove my surgical dressings Steve told me that we would be spending a lot of time together and it was going to hurt a lot, starting immediately.   Boy he was right.  It took him half an hour to get the surgical dressing off as it had fused to my skin and surgical wounds with dried blood and other fluids and had two weeks to calcify to my skin and raw flesh.

Pain, as I would slowly learn, is an extraordinary teacher.  It reveals things about yourself that you most likely didn’t know were there, provided you lean into it a bit.  So I leaned in.  Steve was unrelenting and asked how I was doing.  I told him it hurt like a motherfucker.  “Great,” he said, “let’s keep going.”

When he finally disrobed my fingers I couldn’t look at them.  They looked like raw hamburger that had been stitched up.  I felt a little nauseous and so did my girlfriend.  Steve, however, said everything looked great and as it was supposed to look.  He bandaged my index finger and what was left of my thumb individually with inch-wide gauze dressing.  I was told to come back the next morning to get fitted for splints to protect my healing fingers and instructions for bandaging.

My girlfriend and I left and got Bojangles.  Bojangles chicken had become part of the healing process after one of my pre-operative visits several weeks before.  While the surgeon was concurrently examining my mangled hand, making a surgery plan, and giving me nerve block shots through massive syringes, my girlfriend was holding my other hand and staring away from the carnage and at a stack of magazines across the room.  There was a Southern Living magazine on a nearby table with biscuits on the cover.  “We need biscuits”, she whispered to me.  This was a welcoming distraction because I immediately stopped thinking about my hand and how much all of this was going to cost and thought about the glorious coming of biscuits and fried chicken.  From that moment on Bojangles became Orthopedic Trauma Chicken: the patron saint of reconstructive hand surgery, may her light ever shine upon us.

(Many months later one of her children broke their wrist and the other dislocated his knee.  They too learned of the virtues that Orthopedic Trauma Chicken offered.)

The next day I went back to the office early in the morning by myself.  Steve was waiting for me with some sterile wraps.  He explained to me that the bandages would serve as an infection barrier, but also to help my fingers to keep their shape as they healed, specifically my thumb.  In this early part of the healing process, he told me it was important to wrap them as he had shown me, as that was the desired shape that they would take.  I wasn’t to wash them or put any balms or ointments or disinfectants on them.  The body takes care of itself, he said, and I was to let my body do it’s thing.  Infection was a dangerous possibility and I was to call them if I showed any signs, but the 2,000 milligrams of antibiotics I took everyday kept that from happening.  I did exactly as I was told.  I left with two bright blue removable finger splints made from a thermo-setting plastic.  I could button my pants again.

I went there two or three times a week after work.  It was always in the late afternoon and usually only a couple people were in the therapy room.  Steve would unwrap my fingers and let them air out.  Justin would bring a small cup of water cut with peroxide that I would soak my fingers in for about half an hour.  Steve would then pick off the eschar with forceps to prevent scar tissue from forming.  Every few days he would remove a couple of stitches.  All of this was extremely painful and it went on for a month and a half but I was so glad for those two guys.  Steve would tell stories about the dumb things he did in the boonies of West Virginia growing up, and Justin would regale us with stories of dancing on the bar of a downtown drinking establishment.  Justin also had excellent playlists that he would have going over the speakers.  I came to really look forward to these appointments.

As I sat there soaking my fingers day in and day out I also noticed some other other patients there.  There were several gentleman with work injuries who were there on their company workman’s compensation.  There was a lady who had damaged a tendon in her hand with a kitchen knife, and a couple ladies and gentlemen with wrist injuries.  Steve and the gang tended to all of them.  There was one gentleman who stood out- a large muscular guy whose injury I couldn’t figure out.  I knew he wouldn’t be there if he hadn’t had something serious happen but I couldn’t discern what that was.  One day as I was sitting with my hand airing out waiting for Steve, I heard somebody tell me how good my fingers looked.  It was the large gentleman who came in everyday.  This surprised me because for one; I felt that despite what everyone at that office was telling me, my fingers did not look great and that I was a disaster, and for two; I wasn’t used to talking to anybody but the therapists outside of small pleasantries.

The large man then showed me his left hand and I saw that he only had four fingers.  His thumb was nothing but a nub and his index finger and the flesh immediately below was completely gone.   I had to look twice because it was so completely normal and comfortable for him that I didn’t notice at first.  Amazingly enough, that wasn’t even why he was there- he was an electrician by trade and had torn a major tendon in his bicep that had to be reattached.  His hand, he told me, had happened after an accident when he was nineteen years old.  The surgeon had saved his index finger, but he said he had it removed a month later because he was pissed off that it wouldn’t work right.   Young and dumb, he told me, and he wished he had kept the finger and learned to use it as it was.  He told me to figure out how to work through the pain and get as much use out of it as possible.

……..

While all this was happening I was going to work, and sorting out the massive stack of bills I had accumulated.  Even with insurance, this whole ordeal was phenomenally expensive.  I learned more about the financial workings of the healthcare industry than I ever cared to.  Shortly after the surgery, which was covered by my insurance, I got a $4,000 bill from the anesthesiologist, saying it was an out of network provider and not covered by my insurance.  After spending hours on the phone with the insurance company, the surgery center, and the anesthesiologist, I found out that it should have been lumped in with my surgery but wasn’t.  The reason for this was because the tax ID for the anesthesiologist’s claim was in-network, but the provider they sent wasn’t.  All three of them told me I was stuck with this bill and there wasn’t anything they could do for me.  Through some stroke of fate, I found that my neighbor worked in insurance and knew the billing manager of my surgery center and gave me her number.  I spoke with her once and I don’t know what she did but she waved her black magic healthcare wand and made it go away.  That was just one incident of many, but it was always a whiplash.  I renamed my mailbox the Mailbox of Doom because I never knew what fresh hell was going to be waiting for me.

As my hand healed, I got back into the shop a little bit.  Steve had told me that I would be able to do all the things I had done before, but I would definitely have to find different ways to do them.  Finding those different ways added up to teaching myself to make knives all over again.  I found myself thinking of a professor I had in music school.  The man was a brilliant concert pianist.   I didn’t find out till much later that he had suffered a stroke and had to teach himself to play piano all over again- I had no idea of this when I was taking class with him.  The man had since passed and I found myself wishing to be able to ask him about what the rehabilitative process looked like for him and how it felt.

I also called my yoga teacher.  I missed being able to do yoga and asked Steve what I could and couldn’t do.  He told me I could put weight on my forearms, but not my hand.  I told this to my yoga teacher and she choreographed a modified Ashtanga series for me that I could do on my forearms.  She told me to get some yoga blocks to help facilitate this.  When I saw how much foam yoga blocks cost, I decided I would just use a piece of treated 4″x6″ lumber cutoff that I had in my truck.  I did Viking Recovery Yoga a couple times a week and it was brutally difficult.  I leaned into the pain.

……….

Slowly I eased into more physical therapy work and getting facility back into my hand.  Justin had gone back to college and I often met with another therapist, Kay, a lady from Puerto Rico.  She was fantastically kind and gentle, and always wore fiercely hip shoes.  Her husband was retired military and they went on wild adventures on the weekends.  She showed me pictures of a trip where they had taken visually impaired kids on a whitewater rafting trip- all the kids in the picture are tearing ass down river rapids and had on the giant sunglasses that you see the elderly wearing.  At first I wondered how she functioned in such a deeply masculine work environment but the reality was that she was probably the wildest of everyone.

With Steve, I always took a ‘make it suck more’ approach to physical therapy.  Make me do more, give me more things to work on at home, kick my ass a little harder, I’ve got to do better.  With him it was like being at the gym with a buddy.  While I was working through my brutal hand exercises, he would be timing me and telling me about his last bow hunting adventure.  One time he had me dig twenty marbles out of five pounds of silly putty with my two gimpy fingers while he went on a soliloquy about a regional restaurant chain in West Virginia with the best damn breakfast biscuits he had ever had.

With Kay everything was a little bit gentler.  I still pushed but the drive was more subdued.  Conversation was turned inward and bravado was dialed way back.  She asked about how things were going in the shop and I would do my best to articulate all the digital nuances I was navigating and modifying.  My type A disposition would be disarmed before I even knew it was happening and she would talk me through issues I was having.  It was a lot.  After I had spent forty-five minutes struggling with an exercise, she would always tell me I was doing really well.  I would then go sit in my car and cry before I drove home.

……..

 In December I had another smaller surgery to remove the hardware that had been in place while the bone in my index finger fused.  Compared to everything else it wasn’t that big of a deal.  In February of 2019 I had my last post-op follow-up with my surgeon.  Before he discharged me from his care and the care of the physical therapists, he told me I had healed very quickly and my results were not typical of people who sustained my severity of injury.  I told him that I didn’t have a gold plated insurance plan and zero workman’s compensation.  If I gave up I would just sink.  There was no other choice.

I also told him that there were a lot of people who had invested a tremendous amount of time and energy into a very expensive process to help me, and it would be a huge disservice to everyone, including myself, if I didn’t honor that by doing the best that I possibly could.

This was the first knife I completely finished after I was discharged.

This steel came from a friend.  The man they bought their house from made lawnmower blades and they found these in the garage when they moved in.  This is a 1/4″ oil hardening steel:

persuader1

Rough grinding:

persuader2

Hand sanding before hardening:

persuader3

persuader4

Hardened

persuader5

Tempering:

persuader6

persuader7

Satin finish:

persuader8

Spalted Pecan from my cousin in Texas:

The black lines weaving their way through the grain is actually a fungus.  This fungus that injures the tree actually makes it more beautiful:

The Persuader:

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Move on, but don’t forget how it feels.

 

Knifemaking: therapy for large men, Buddhism with the boring parts left out, and the Rumfoord

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“I was a victim of a series of
accidents, as are we all.”

Malachi Constant, from Kurt Vonnegut’s The Sirens of Titan

 

A few years ago I went to see a therapist.  I was stagnating.  I had lost my job and was doing all sorts of ridiculous things to make ends meet.  Over the course of about six months I floundered about.  I worked security for outdoor festivals, fixed toilets in a friend’s apartment buildings, and did tree work with another friend.

I remember being baffled by the whole situation, and feeling like a victim of unfortunate circumstance.  This wasn’t how any of this was supposed to happen.

Knives were not doing well.  As I was sitting there staring at my belly button and not doing anything about my situation, it was suggested by those close to me that I go talk to someone who could help me.  That was the last thing I wanted to do.

After some consideration, and a good amount of trepidation, I called a counseling office recommended by my insurance company and I went in for an appointment.

I remember sitting in a very Spartan office, with lamps suggesting a mood of emotional intimacy, and an institutional nightstand with a box of off-brand tissues sitting on top of it.   My therapist walked in.  He was a large African-American gentleman, crisply dressed, and carrying a folder.

He asked me the formal therapist/patient questions: what I hoped to accomplish in our sessions, and what it was I hoped to gain from our time together.  The truth was that I was a little stuck.  There were things about myself that I missed, a spontaneity and ease of being that I had lost.  I knew where I was and I knew where I wanted to be but I didn’t know how to get there.  Also there was a lot of emotional clutter and traumatic bullshit in the way.  I told him all of this.

‘I think I can help you with that’, he said.  ‘As for the emotional clutter and everything else in the way- I think it’s time to let that shit go’.

So we began.  Nearly every two weeks for about a year, and then maybe once a month for the year after that.  My therapist was technically a licensed clinical social worker who specialized in substance abuse counseling.  I didn’t have any substance abuse issues- I had simply told the administrative lady at the office that I was most comfortable talking to a middle-aged man, and this gentleman had an opening.  He didn’t wear a suit like all the other therapists.  His dealings with addicts, I found, left him with a particular knack for getting to the root of personal problems , and a no-bullshit way of going about it, like a sort of Krav Maga of psychotherapy.  I come from a place where you didn’t talk about how you felt so to voluntarily talk about things that were bothering me was, and is, something that is incredibly uncomfortable.  And honestly I wasn’t looking to talk about what was bothering me- I was looking for someone to tell me what to do.

Of course that isn’t how therapy works.  He didn’t tell me what to do.  He would ask how situations made me feel and then challenge me.  I came in one time really bothered about something and I remember him laughing at me.  ‘Welp, you’re in the shit now’ he said, ‘What do you intend to do about it?’

The bluntness was empowering and it didn’t come with any judgement.  This was simply how one large man was helping another large man.  I would go in and tell him that my shit was all fucked up that week.  And he would nonchalantly ask me if I had a plan for unfucking my shit, and that if I did not, perhaps there were some goddamn unresolved childhood issues being played out and my fucked up shit was just a manifestation of that.  Then we would unpack my goddamn issues so that I could start unfucking my shit.

I would tell him that I struggled with faith that everything would be ok.  He said everybody does.  I told him I had a hard time dealing with disappointment and uncomfortable feelings that came from harboring resentments.  I let him know I was ashamed about not being able to accept failure.  He told me that all these made me a completely normal human being.  Month after month he would talk me off of existential cliffs.  ‘Don’t be a victim’, he would say.  ‘Be a warrior.’

We talked a lot about transformation and how it can be difficult to change.  I would be frustrated about something that was so deeply innate to my being that I didn’t know where to start.  He would gently tell me that a person can only change so much, and some things simply can’t be changed.  And then he would say that some of the things I was trying to change weren’t bad things and I should reframe what it was I was trying to do.  It was a study in Buddhism, but with the boring parts left out, and a whole lot more expletives.  When a sculptor wants to make a statue of an elephant from a block of stone, he simply removes the parts that don’t look like an elephant.  There comes a point when you can’t remove anything else to make the stone look more like an elephant.  This was what we were doing- removing (or at least identifying) the parts that didn’t serve the whole, and accepting everything else with kindness and compassion.  Om Mani Padme Hum…

We laughed a lot.  Lots of sad things came up, and I would get really weepy and reach for the off-brand box of tissues in that intimately lit office.  We talked about music and books and art, and what it was to be a good man and what doing the right thing looked like.   We usually ran over our time limit.

After a while I started bringing in the knives I was making and talking through the stories.  It was like sculpting an elephant, or yourself, but I was taking away the parts that didn’t look like a knife.  I was afraid it might be weird bringing big knives into a shrink’s office week after week but he told me to keep bringing them and to keep telling him their stories.  So I did.  I told him they were guardians that helped me to write the ridiculous experience that life has been for me.  I’ve never done things the conventional way, or even the smart way, and bringing your handmade knives in to help you talk about your story with your large African American psychotherapist probably falls into at least one of those categories.  He was always kind to that part of me.  He told me to keep building little sharp guardians and to keep writing.  At the end of each session I would shake his hand and thank him.  ‘No, thank you,’ he would say.  He said he always looked forward to seeing me on his schedule and to what I would come in and tell him.  I think he dealt with people much more fucked up than I was.

I started seeing him less frequently.  I found, slowly and when not crippled by self doubt, that I was getting to where I wanted to be and was able to find what I needed in myself.  I was doing good things and feeling alright.  He told me that much, and that nobody really knows what they are doing anyway, and he was always there if I needed him.  He also told me to keep my knives sharp.

Every so often, when I’m about to do something dumb, I’ll hear that man’s voice telling me not to be a dumbass and I’ll think twice…

Sometimes one may know where they want to be but don’t always know how they’re going to get there.  The journey to that destination is often the most interesting part of making it in the world.  This blade gets it’s name from one of my favorite books, The Sirens of Titan, where the main character is at the mercy of the whims of chance and destiny (and also aliens), but through the grace of the almighty chonosynclastic infundibulum, ends up precisely at his foretold destiny.  Along the way all of his core beliefs are challenged and his world is completely upended, yet there he is at the end of it all.  This is the lesson of the Rumfoord.

This knife was built for a gentleman who was waiting a very long time for it:

Heating can cause warping.  A sophisticated setup for straightening…

Roughing in a full flat grind:

Removing all the machine marks…

…to achieve something a bit more pleasing.  A smoother finish helps the blade to move through food better.

An acid etch to force a patina.  This helps with corrosion resistance on the high carbon steel.

A PCB board blank from a server chassis.  This will be spacing material for the handle:

Texas Pecan, from my cousin Bill:

Drilling out the rivet holes:

Laying out the handle profile:

The handle near the ricasso, at 40 grit:

The handle near the ricasso, at 1500 grit:

Glued up:

Profiled:

Shaped:

Smoothed:

The Rumfoord:

Knifemaking: managing it and the Directeur

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“…also he had learned that a person could be happy with having done the best they could under the circumstances. It didn’t always have to be bright and shiny and impressive to the outside observer.” 
― Ellen Airgood, South of Superior

 

When I was twenty-two I took a summer job at the the university I was attending.  The School of the Arts at the university put together a three week summer residential program for high school kids.  For three weeks in July, roughly a hundred and twenty teenagers would come to the university, live in the dorms, eat in the dining hall, and take classes in their respective art disciplines taught by real college professors.  This was a way to give kids a little taste of what art school was like, and hopefully to get them to apply to the university when they graduated.  I did this for eight summers and it was one of the best jobs I ever had.

High school kids who were interested had to submit portfolios and go through an application process.  There were disciplines for sculpture, photography, dance, theatre, fashion design and merchandising, filmmaking, digital animation, and drawing and painting.  Some of the applications were pretty hysterical.

The University hired forty other college students like me to be counselors in the program.  We were there to keep the students safe.  Students were divided up amongst us.  We would stay in the dorms with them, take them to their classes and meals, make sure they were in bed when they were supposed to be, and come up with activities for them to do.  Our presence was designed to keep bad behavior to a minimum.  We had a week of training to go over protocols and procedures.  There were university policies that handled underage alcohol in the dorms, as well as drugs, and what to do when students went missing or fell ill. There were a group of grad students who were our bosses and handled disciplinary issues.  Nearly everyone at the program was between the age of fourteen and seventeen, not legally adults, so these policies and procedures were important.

The kids moved in and for three weeks we were their caretakers.  We took them to class, ate dining hall food with them, and came up with evening activities for them to do as only art school kids can do.  We made themed dances- my personal favorite was “Merry Christmas Taylor Swift: Live from the Galapagos Islands”, and everyone dressed accordingly.  There was “Dress Your Counselor Night”, where one of the more attractive male counselors wound up shirtless and in a dress.  On the weekends we took kids to museums, and to some of the nearby restaurants.  Counselors took some of the kids on morning runs.  One time I bought my kids a bunch of Nerf guns and we went to an unoccupied floor of the dorms and had a giant battle.  Kids were always working on their art and we helped and encouraged them.  I scored the music for a film one of the kids was working on for class.  We kept everyone occupied and mostly out of trouble.  Mostly.

Every year there was pretty predictable behavior.  With a little bit a freedom the kids would start to push boundaries- they were teenagers after all.  Some kids would go vegan during the program and then get sick because all they were eating were french fries and Captain Crunch.  Other kids would dye their hair or cut it all off, and then we would have to explain to a parent why their little Jessica had a purple buzzcut.  The lactose intolerant kid would order a large cheese pizza and fart up the dorm. Some kids were figuring out their sexuality and we delicately did our best to be supportive and help them along their path.

We had a lot of kids with…peculiarities?  One kid with irritable bowel syndrome had to get his mom to overnight him his homeopathic diarrhea medicine from New York because he had left it at home.  There was a Saudi Arabian boy with Aspergers Syndrome who terrified all of the girls because they thought he was yelling at them when he tried to talk to them.  One year we had a kid from the Make-A-Wish foundation come who was on kidney dialysis- his dorm room looked like a medical lab.   Another year there was a girl acting out horribly the whole time and we couldn’t figure out why until we called her mother.  Turns out her father had left the family six months before to live as a woman, and this little girl was pissed about it.  I worked with a team of really awesome people and and no matter the situation or issue, nobody ever had to shoulder anything by themselves.

Every so often there were really awful kids that we had to send home.  We called one kid’s father at midnight on a weekday because he was smoking pot in his room.  That kid was gone by morning.  Another kid decided to throw a frozen water bottle out of his 14th floor dorm window at ten o’clock at night.  It smashed the windshield of a car driving on the street below.  The police came and woke up everyone on three of the floors to find out who did it.  That kid ended up getting sent home and having to pay for the guy’s windshield, but he did avoid a felony charge.

By the end of my tenure at this summer gig I was supervising all of the counselors and everything that went on in the dorms.   I had graduated but it looked good for the program when Alumni were involved.  The money was good and it fit into my schedule.  The only person I reported to was a tenured professor who was the program director, and she trusted everyone to do their jobs.  I was on the hiring team and doing all of the scheduling for the counselors’ shifts.  I ran a lot of the training, wrote policies for the program to help it run better, and wrote itineraries for staff meetings.  I handled disciplinary issues and procedures and when kids fucked up, they dealt with me.  I made changes as I saw fit.  For example, in the earlier years the other counselors and I would all go out and get hammered after we put the kids to bed, and then stumble back to the dorms wasted.  No longer.  Funny how things change when it’s your ass on the line.

I’ve never really considered myself a very good manager or administrator.  I’ve also never been great at following the rules or being a team player, and I’ve always struggled to fit into corporate and traditional workplace scenarios.  In the instance of this job I just tried to make sure everybody was safe and all the institutional ‘t’s and ‘i’s that kept everyone safe were crossed and dotted.  It wasn’t always cheeky and fun.  There were two separate summers where I was going through really awful breakups, and another summer where there was a death in my family.  I would still DJ dance parties and take sick kids to the Urgent Care facility and make sure everyone was ok.  The responsibility and sometimes difficult tasks were worth it.

Because in spite of all the shenanigans, and the calling of parents, and confused teenage sexualities, and homeopathic diarrhea medicine, the vast majority of these kids left our little three week program at our state university really inspired and ready to do kick ass things, and a lot of them have.  That felt really good and was what kept me there all those years.  I grew a lot.  I made lifelong friends.  I met my girlfriend, though I didn’t know it at the time.  I learned what it was to run something and to have people back you up.

I’ve worked for a lot of crummy managers, people who are ready to throw you under the bus and only care about how they look to the company they are supposed to represent.  A real manager is someone who knows how to steer their organization toward its goals while inspiring their people and navigating through all the stupid things that get in the way.  This is the lesson of the Directeur.

The Directeur was a commission for a lady who has been running restaurants and events in Washington DC for the past decade.   It’s probably similar to working at an Art School summer program but I’m sure the stories are much better, as only Washington DC can provide.

A quick design for an 8″ chef’s knife, in the German style:

Profiling the blade:

Hardening the steel…

…and oil quenched.

Grinding the bevels:

Hand Sanding:

The blade is then soaked in acid to etch the steel.  This knife has a Hamon line, meaning the cutting edge is at full hardness while the spine is a touch softer.  This gives the blade durability.  You can start to see the line forming:

For the handle, I started with a computer board blank for spacing material:

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Cut, drilled, and pinned:

It’s important to remember to keep it casual.  Blue jeans layered in fiberglass resin should be a good reminder:

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Black Walnut, milled by a man of the cloth from rural Virginia:

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Piecing it together:

Clamped.  You can see that lovely Hamon on the blade:

All glued up:

Shaped:

Helping the grain to speak:

The Directeur:

….this knife came back to me with a cracked handle, which can happen with natural materials.  I removed the old handle and put a new one on it:

May you manage your circumstances to the best of you abilities.  The outcomes and experiences are absolutely worth it.

Knifemaking: having a quiet day and the Woodsman, Mark Deux

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‘In silence there is eloquence. Stop weaving and see how the pattern improves.’

-Rumi

From mid-January to mid-June of this year everything had been a blur.  I was running from job to job, gig to gig, knife to knife, trying to stay on top of everything.  Every time that I felt like I had room to breathe, something else would come up.  Car repairs, state taxes, doctors’ visits, new tools.  It was always something and I was hustling left and right, making sure everything was moving forward and getting taken care of.

Then I had an accident that pretty much stopped everything.

I injured two of my fingers pretty seriously on a table saw.  I was cutting some very thin material when the saw bound up and kicked, and I couldn’t get away fast enough.  The shop is at my partner James’ house and he happened to be home when this happened.  I quickly grabbed a dirty towel and, doing my best not to panic, politely yelled that I needed to go to the ER, right that second.  

On the ride to the ER, which was about twenty minutes away, I took stock of the situation.  James, who teaches shop and technology education, asked me to double check that my fingers were still attached and not on the floor of the shop.  Indeed they were still attached.  I would be told later that I was very lucky to keep my fingers- none of the major tendons or arteries were damaged beyond repair.  

I do my best to practice calm in my life.  Strong reactions happen from time to time, and the best way to deal with them is to feel them, let them pass, and address what caused the strong reaction in the first place.  This is an incredibly challenging thing to do and I don’t always do it well but I’ve gotten better at it over the years.  On the ride to the ER I found impossible to calm down.  I noticed that my thoughts were manic and erratic and I had trouble breathing normally.  I felt a pretty deep sense of guilt and shame, as if I had this coming because I wasn’t slowing down.  A doctor would later tell me that what I had experienced was an acute stress reaction and was normal for what I had experienced, largely in part from the sheer volume of adrenaline and other chemicals that my body had released.  

The ER was a miserable experience.  The ER doctor told me they would need to operate but they would need to transport me to another facility because there was no one covered by my insurance at that particular hospital.  Nobody even looked at my fingers and I sat on a hospital bed and bled on myself for two hours before someone gave me any pain medicine.  The paramedics finally arrived and bandaged my hand- the first time anyone had done anything. They pumped me full of IV fentanyl before loading me onto an ambulance to go to another hospital.  Those guys knew how to get shit done, and in my very stoned state I kept telling them how glad I was that they were there.

We got to the next hospital, and my girlfriend met me there.  In my state of shock I had forgotten my phone at the shop and James had called her.  I was really glad she was there because it would be another four hours before the surgeon showed up.  As it turned out he was not covered by my insurance either.  Somebody had screwed up. 

The worst part about the ER is that you are forced to make life-altering decisions when you are in a state of shock, and/or heavily medicated and not in your best of faculties.  The surgeon gave me the option of going ahead with surgery but understood if I didn’t want to- he was very kind and professional, and pretty pissed that this was the way the system was working.  I opted not to have surgery that night because it would have medically bankrupted me.  I would never have been able to pay that kind of money back.  I would have to find another surgeon on my own.   He cleaned and temporarily stitched me up enough so that I could safely leave, which involved two incredibly painful nerve block shots and a pretty shoddy cast courtesy of the ER nurse- I think it was her first.  By the time we left, my pharmacy had closed and the hospital wouldn’t send me home with any medication.  I had to make it the night without pain pills or antibiotics (I would end up taking 2000mg of Keflex a day for 20 days- I was so filthy when I went in they were afraid I was going to give myself sepsis).  We went home and tried to get some rest, because the next day would be busy.

I think this was what it looked like when the system fails you.  

……

The next morning we got on the phone.  We called my insurance company and they found a place that would take a look at me right away.  Ironically enough their office was located at the first hospital I had gone to the day before.  I met with an orthopedic surgeon and his nurse practitioner.

I found out that orthopedic surgeons do a lot of hip and knee replacements on the elderly, so when a young person comes in with an exciting injury everyone wants to see.  I had no less than six people come and look at me, all very excited. 

The doctor was really excited to work on me- he was an artist and I was his canvas.  He drew me a picture of the procedure he would do and explained the whole thing.  They were going to fuse the middle joint of my index finger which the table saw had blown out, and remove a bit of my thumb.  I got another two painful shots of nerve block while he examined everything and moved some things back into place.  There aren’t a whole lot of words to convey how painful those shots are- I nearly crushed my girlfriend’s hand with my good hand.  My surgery would be two days from then, and they told me to rest.  So that’s what I did.

I have always had trouble finding quiet places and allowing myself to rest.  Now I had no choice.  I called my work and told them what happened and that I wasn’t sure when I would be back in.  I had to cancel some contractor work and push back a lot of client work.  That was what hurt the most.  My girlfriend and I watched a lot of Netflix, something we rarely ever do together.  I don’t watch a whole lot of TV but over the next week I would watch more TV than I had in the past five years.  And honestly it was really nice to check out.  I slept a lot and took pain medication and was generally kind of dopey.  I told my girlfriend that she was beautiful and I loved her, frequently.  I couldn’t bathe myself, or put my contact lenses in, or dress myself.  I just had to surrender to everything and let myself be helped. 

…..

Two days later we went to have surgery done.  I have never had any surgical procedure done before and was really nervous.  They took me in the back and had me put on a hospital gown and fixed up an IV in me.  After a large bump of a sedative they gave me a giant nerve block shot in my shoulder, which made my entire arm go numb.  I was dopey but still semi-conscious when they wheeled me into the OR.  They had music piped in- Bryan Adams was playing.  From what I understand of these things, the anesthesiologist has you count backwards from one hundred till you knock out.  Apparently they didn’t do this with me- I knocked out on my own singing ‘Heaven’ from Canada’s most famous musical export.  I think this was an auspicious sign.

…..

After surgery everything was kind of fuzzy.  We went home and my girlfriend put me in her bed and told me not to get up while she went to pick up my prescriptions.  My entire left arm was completely numb from the nerve block and I remember being really hungry.  Apparently I got up and ate an entire box of her kids’ Pop-Tarts while she was gone and then swore to her that I didn’t.  There were Pop-Tart wrappers all over the place- I don’t remember any of this.  I slept a whole lot and my dead arm, which I was supposed to keep elevated, kept falling and hitting me in the head.  I had a whole pile of pills that I had to take and my girlfriend dutifully kept me on a tight schedule.  The best I could do was tell her that I loved her and tell her how beautiful she was.

The next four days passed like that.  She took off from her high stress-job and looked after me. She helped me bathe, made sure I was taking my medicine, and kept me fed.  I would get really weepy from time to time.  It was all a lot; the trauma from the accident, the bone-deep pain from the surgery, and the bills that would be coming (because even with insurance these procedures are very expensive), and the people I felt I had let down.  Then there was this really wonderful woman taking care of me telling me that it was ok and how well I was doing.  The pain medication peeled away all of the armor I usually wear to function in the world and so from time to time all of this would hit me and I would just sit there and cry.

A few days later we went to clean up my apartment.  I had gotten off the major pain killers to see how my hand was doing so I could get back to my day job.  In situations where there is a caregiver and a care receiver things can turn toxic and codependent— I’ve seen it happen.  The pain pills can be addictive and I didn’t want to be a patient or lean on anyone if I didn’t have to. 

I had a couple of my friends come over to help.  I couldn’t really do a whole lot.  My girlfriend spent two hours cleaning my shower- a knifemaker’s shower can get really dirty.  One of my friends washed all my dishes for me.  James had let me keep my car at his place till I could drive again, and I finally went and picked it up.  And I started going back to work.

……

My two fingers have been in special splints as they heal, so I’ve been doing everything with eight fingers instead of ten.  All the simple things I do that I never think about, like brushing my teeth or packing a backpack or making a sandwich, suddenly require a lot more thought and take twice as long.  It’s really draining and frustrating and a full day of that makes me really tired.    

One thing that continually catches me off guard is the amount of help that is available.  Whenever there is something I can’t do there is always someone right there to help.  Shortly after the surgery I was working a large concert and I had trouble getting a pack of snack crackers open.  I had to grab a union stagehand, an older gentleman with a long white ponytail, and ask him if he could open my crackers for me.  “Well sure brother,” he says.  “Everybody needs a little help now and then.”  Cue waterworks from me.

Getting back into the shop has been scary, and a slow process.  I was in the middle of this knife when I injured myself and I had to keep emailing the client to push back when I would have it finished.  I did all of the woodworking and leatherwork with eight fingers.  It’s been an exercise in leaning into fear and getting back on the horse. 

I tend to have a lot of quiet days of late.  Quiet days allow everything to settle and help one’s focus to reset and help one to cultivate a sense of gratitude.  They also allow for deep processing and healing.  This is also lesson of the Woodsman.  Any good person of the Woods knows how to find quiet and the goodness that comes from within.  The second part of this build has been an exercise in just that.

O1 tool steel, out of the forge:

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Hand sanding:

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Computer board for the spacing material:

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Mesquite from Texas for the handle:

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All profiled:

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Rough shaped on the grinder- from here out it’s all hand work:

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This is at 220 grit:

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Letting a bit of oil set in to help the grain to speak:

The Woodsman, Mark II:

Knifemaking: a walk through the forest and the Woodsman

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“Come closer and see,
See into the trees”

The Cure- “A Forest”

This knife was a donation to a charity auction put on by the Virginia Department of Forestry.  Many of the men and women who work for the Department of Forestry spend much of their work time and free time outdoors.  I wanted to build something that fit into that idea- stout and sturdy with no problem disappearing into the woods.  I designed a drop point hunter that was just that:

Cut out:

Centerline is scribed:

Early grinding work:

Hardened…

…and tempered

Polishing:

….to a nice satin finish:

An old shirt of mine I used to camp in.  It’s beat up and full of holes, which makes it an excellent candidate for knife handle material:

Ready to be set in fiberglass resin:

All the layers pressed together:

Everything is cured:

The Woodsman:


You can read more about how the department of Forestry serves you here:

http://www.southernforests.org/

…and here is one of the causes that they serve:

http://www.semperk9.org/

Knifemaking: The Things That Come to Us- A Restoration

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“i imagine that yes is the only living thing.”
― e.e. cummings

 

There are many things that come into our own personal worlds- children, possessions, problems, blessings and a myriad of others.  It’s not so important how or why they enter our lives, but what we do with them.  It expends a great amount of energy to ponder what we may have done to deserve the painful and traumatizing events that come to us, and an equal amount of energy is wasted when we wonder if we are worthy of the good things that are brought our way.

Because when we start dwelling on the why’s and how’s, we tend to become overwhelmed and lose sight of what best needs to be done with what comes into our lives.

And within that judgement of why and how, we start to say no to things.  We become afraid we may be hurt, or that we may fail ourselves or those we care about.  Perhaps we are afraid of making ourselves unsafe.  Whatever the reason, in saying no we shut ourselves out of the blessing may be inside of a painful situation.  We say no to what may be a path forward because it is dressed as something unpleasant.  It is then that we become prisoners in our lives instead of seeing the ways we can be shaped and grow.  We should say no to things that are harmful and do not better us, but it’s always good to say yes to what life brings us.

The summers are slow for me, and sometimes I have to get creative in the ways I support myself.  I end up saying yes to many opportunities that under normal circumstances I would decline, usually due to time constraints, time away from loved ones, or a high probability of bodily endangerment (or a combination of all three).  Over the years the things I’ve reluctantly said yes to have usually been the most rewarding.

One of the times I said yes this summer was to a tree job in rural Virginia.  I was on a crew to cut down a huge dead tree.  Removing dead trees can be dangerous.  Rotting can occur in any number of unseen places of the tree, causing structural instability, and the tree may not fall where or when you desire it to fall.  This particular tree, though dead as a doornail, fell exactly as it was supposed to.

The client was an artist, and brought us French-pressed coffee.  We talked for a bit and I told him about making knives and how I got my materials.  He told me that he had some slabs of black walnut and that I was welcome to them.  They had been milled by a neighboring man who had run an abbey in South Korea, saying ‘yes’ to whatever fleeing defectors and dissidents from the North that the world brought their way.  Later he sent me an article about the man who cut the wood, you can find it here.  Black Walnut is expensive and isn’t something to normally fall into one’s path, so, in the practice of saying yes, I happily took some.

A week or so later I said yes to doing a bit of work on a good friend’s farm.  My friend is a busy lady and sometimes needs a hand with the upkeep of her property.  She and her family are good friends of mine.  I worked for her son for several years and like to get out to their property as often as I can.  It’s really beautiful:

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She had a set of knives she wasn’t sure what to do with.  They belonged to her late husband, and came to him from his grandfather, who was an Austrian immigrant.  He came to the United States in the early 1900’s and made his living as a chef, choosing to say yes to a new world and a new life.  She told me she’d like to have them restored so they can go to her children and stepchildren to remember their father.  I told her I would have a look at them and see what I could do.

Tools of the trade, from left to right:  A carving knife; a fish knife; a French slicing knife; and a 12″ chef’s knife

So these knives came to me, at least a hundred years old, and of deep sentimental value.   I started by removing the cracked and broken handles.

I cleaned up the corrosion and oxidization from the blades, but left much of the etched patina from their years in the kitchen.

In a continued practice of saying ‘yes’ I chose to use some of the Black Walnut I got from the tree job for the handle material.  It fit nicely into the story of these knives.  This is what it looks like sanded and polished.

All of the handles started as thin blocks cut from the Black Walnut.

Shaping.


The filet knife was only half-tang, so I extended it with mild steel from a sheet.

I added a G10 bolster and spacer for a bit of contrast.

After glueing and sanding.

Getting the fish knife ready for glueing and shaping.

The French slicer was tricky….

…but also an elegant challenge, with its tapered tang and integral bolsters.

 

Finished, they came out rather beautifully:

Say yes to the things that come to you whenever possible.  It’s always worth it on the other side.

Knifemaking: the things that get in the way and the Arrow

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“The way we do anything is the way we do everything.”

-Martha Beck

……..

“I guess I’ve been carrying many small things.”

-Mina Tindle- “To Carry Many Small Things”

When I was nineteen I started lifting weights.  I didn’t have a particular destination or goal.  The only real goal that was there was to lift as well or better than I had the day before.  I paid attention to form, technique, and consistency.  I got better as time went by.

Ritual was crucial.  I would allow myself to be very quiet.  I had a taken some dance classes in college and would do these really amazing spine-lengthening stretches.  After my workout I would take a shower, sit in the sauna for twenty minutes, and then leave.  I did all of this without speaking to anyone.  It was like going to church: still, prayerful, and introspective.

I never made notes or kept logs.  I made sure my routines and circuits were simple enough to remember day to day and week to week and so on.  I kept up with this for eleven, maybe twelve years.  When I felt good, I went to the gym.  When I felt bad, I went to the gym.

Then about two or three years ago I noticed I was having trouble finding those quiet and still places.  I had trouble getting to the gym and staying present with what I was doing.  Actually I had trouble staying present in nearly all the things I was trying to do.  I wasn’t sure what to do.  I went to the doctor, got blood work done.  I talked to a therapist.  I was healthy.

My girlfriend noticed this, and put me in touch with a lady she had been studying with.  She said I was probably missing a physical practice and since the gym wasn’t in the picture anymore I should at least talk to this lady, who was in the practice of Ashtanga yoga.  I had watched her take a course of study from this woman to help her heal from a hip injury.  She was calmer, glowier, and looked fantastic with a sort of shimmer about her.  Ok, I finally said, I’ll give her a shout.

I made an appointment with this lady and we talked about what it was to practice yoga.  Her name is Leigh.  She told me that in this practice, if practiced diligently, transformation would occur.  She said that I would notice unpleasant things rise to the surface.  Things would fall away, she said, and those would mostly be the things that got in the way: bad habits, patterns of self-sabotage, and bad attitudes- the fun things. Afterwards I told my girlfriend that if I turned into some sort of New Age asshole who extolled the virtues of kale and hashtagged ‘namaste’, I would prefer she shoot me, bury me in the backyard, and tell everyone I left her.

(Quite a few months later I would find myself in front of a salad bar at a hillbilly barbecue buffet in North Carolina, and I would notice that my first thought was ‘where the fuck is the baby kale?’  My second thought had something to do with being shocked that my first thought was about kale…).

I started meeting with Leigh about every month or so and she was right.  Things DID fall away.  I found myself becoming very protective of my sleep and rest.  I started eating better and found myself desiring fruits and vegetables, which is something completely new.   I stopped going out and I didn’t miss it at all.  I leaned into life a little more.

Then I noticed all the small things I had been carrying.  In Ashtanga, I found that almost everything I didn’t like about myself was held out and dangled in front of my face whenever I was on the mat and often culminated in tears.  I wasn’t aware of all the prickly bits I carry around on an almost daily basis: guilt, shame, resentment, rage, and impulsivity.  I’ve always heard from my friends about how relaxing and grounding yoga was for them.  I have not had that experience.  I sobbed uncontrollably during the first week I started.  I wasn’t nearly as patient as I thought I was, and definitely more judgmental than I ever believed.  Sometimes I find I am so present with myself that it hurts.  Unlike the gym, there is no rush of endorphins for me.  I end with everything I start with and honestly, it really sucks sometimes.

This sounds like a ringing endorsement and you’re probably asking yourself “where do I sign up?”

The truth is that this is a practice that helps you to know yourself, all of yourself, and that is usually going to be painful.  The growth and transformation happens when you find the pain isn’t going to kill you (although sometimes you wish it would).  The idea is not to make the uncomfortable things go away- they aren’t going to.  It’s to create a space to be with them and to go about your life in spite of being uncomfortable.

This blade was a commission for Leigh, from her husband.  Both of them are incredibly loving and kind and supportive people.  Leigh herself is an arrow, piercing those things that get in the way and always doing so with love and encouragement.  She has become a very dear friend and making this knife was a pleasure.

I designed this knife for whittling.  She is built for a smaller hand:

Rough cut, from O1 tool steel stock:

Smoothed out:

Centerline scribed:

Rough grinding:

Hardening:

Tempered:

Laying down a hand finish:

Just a bit more:

Spalted Tamarind:

Bookmatched:

Ready for glue:

Glued and clamped:


Shaped to fit the hand:

The Arrow:

This knife comes with a prayer, the Prayer of the Arrow, to help with all the things that get in the way:

May I be kind to myself
May I be gentle toward myself and others,
And may I move through my world with elegance and grace
May I find a calm mind and go about my day with peace and serenity and
May focus manifest within that calm
Help me to let go of guilt and shame, and help me to be with my anxieties, and to
Lean into my fears and not
be intimidated by them or anything else
May I know that I have enough
Help me to see things for what they are, and to
let go of appearances and of what others may think
Help me to know strong boundaries and to act on them
Help me to not think so much or give so much weight to my emotions and desires
Help me to keep moving forward and to have faith in myself and those I care for
Please keep me safe
And let me know that I am loved

Knifemaking: Rock and roll, privilege, and the Sir

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“He who conquers himself is the mightiest warrior.”

-Confucious

 

Warrior, Merchant, Artisan, Farmer.  These are the four classical occupational archetypes of Feudal China.  These archetypes still ring true today.  There are variances and nuances but in the way we go through life, many of us find ourselves in all four of these occupations, even if only briefly:

-The Farmer understands the value of labor.  He is master of working within the seasons to sow his crop.

-The Artisan understands how different mediums and materials go together, and how to craft his goods within that understanding.  He is master of his tools.

-The Merchant understands business- buying low, selling high, and having a good product.  Business at it’s core level is the art of profit and the Merchant is master of this.

-The Warrior understands the above three archetypes.  He is master of himself and carries the weaponry of his choosing.  He serves society.

I have found myself, at various points in life, in all four occupations.  The Warrior intrigues me most.  Speaking as a man, I feel that most of us want to master ourselves, and the things that try to enslave us- our fears, our desires, and our insecurities.  In our occupations and work, obsessions and compulsions can develop, our fears can play out, and we can become consumed.  We can become obsessed with trying to squeeze the seasons dry, or maximizing profits, or with crafting a better and more beautiful mousetrap.  When these things become all that we see, we have failed to master ourselves and aren’t really serving anything except for what we are trying to achieve.  At this point, all the things that really matter get left in the dust.  We lose sight of the world we live in and are not present in our lives.

In order to master yourself you must know yourself.  Sometimes the best way to know yourself is to know others.  And sometimes the best way to do that is in service to others.

I was working a large arena rock and roll show, one of the largest I’ve ever worked.  The headliners had been around for decades, on the top of the charts, and darlings of video-era MTV.  They have recently been selling out arenas around the world.

I strolled into the production office to get my assignments for the day.  There was laundry, grocery shopping for the tour busses, FedEx and post office runs, prescriptions to be filled, and other bits of housekeeping errands that keep a massive touring operation on the road.  Not everything gets done.  Touring is a practice, not a science.  The most successful touring operations are predicated upon this notion.  My job is to take care of as many of these things as possible based on what the tour needs and the priorities of the show.  This doesn’t leave time for anything that may be superfluous or unnecessary.

After the day was laid out and I had my assignments, the tour manager asked if I could add another thing to my list.  There was a very large basket of toiletries- soaps, shampoos, and lotions- that had been collected from God knows how many swanky hotels.  The tour manager asked me if, time permitting, I could find a Women’s Shelter or a shelter for families in transition and drop them off there.  The band and the crew collect them from every place they stay for that explicit purpose.

I didn’t give it too much thought.  I had a lot of things to do and honestly this little task wasn’t real high on my list.  But the tour manager kept asking me about it and so I decided to make it a priority.  After all, I was in a position to take care of this.  I got on the internet and found a facility nearby.  It was a shelter for women leaving bad domestic situations- in many instances they showed up with nothing but the clothes on their back.

I called them and told them who I was and who I was with and asked if they accepted donations.  Yes we do, they said, please come by.

So I went by, even though I really didn’t have the time.  The people at this organization were really happy to get these things.  They wanted to take a picture for their social media page.  All smiles.  They thanked me for thinking of them and to remember them in the future because funding is always tight and every bit helps.

This was all really special to be a part of, even though it was a pretty small thing.  I wasn’t really expecting that and it was nice.  I don’t normally find myself in these sort of situations.  I’m usually wrapped up in my own affairs, serving the things I am trying to achieve rather than broadening my gaze.  I noticed a lightness in me and the rest of the day felt easier.

There’s a lot of talk about privilege- white privilege, gender privilege, and a myriad of others.  When all of the social justice orthodoxy is stripped away, I find privilege to be a form of power.  There’s nothing wrong with being privileged but it’s important to be aware of it.  Many of us aren’t aware that we have that power within ourselves.  It’s a noble thing to use that privilege, that power (which, honestly, many of us take for granted) to help those who may need it.  It’s a really special thing to give or share of your time and talents when it’s within you power to do so.  This type of service can help you to become more familiar and intimate with yourself, and also help to make the world around you a better place.  That is the mark of a Warrior, and the lesson of the Sir.

O1 tool steel, thin stock

Profiled:

Rough grinding:

This is how to heat up your quench oil on a cold day:

Hardened and tempered:

Handfinishing, at around 220 grit:

Hand finishing at around 320 grit:

Ebony wood:


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Clamped:

Shaped:

The Sir:

Don’t be afraid to look out for others every so often.  This is part of the path toward mastering oneself.

Just a Bunch of Roadies– This is an organization of Music Industry Professionals that use their time and talents to make a difference.  They facilitate larger operations, but also smaller projects, like the one written about in this story.  Be sure to check out their website if you would like to help.