Head to toe carving: the eyes

I’m always rattling on during workshops that folks should use their whole body when carving. Now I’m not proposing you strap a carving axe to your head and run like a bull at chunk of cherry; that wouldn’t do at all. No, what I’m saying is that carving is about so much more than your hands, a tool and some wood.

Built into this incredible machine we all pilot is a whole range of woodworking gubbins that help us grip, slice, assess, chop and design. There’s a heap of information out there on carving techniques that focus on hands and tools, but not a lot on all those other handy bits from eyes down to toes.

So, seeing as I have to shoot in a minute to pick my boy up from school, and I don’t have time right now to go through the detailed anatomy and physiology of your standard spoonerd, I’m going to start a little series of guides that detail head-to-toe carving. And where else to start than at the top.

Carving with your eyes

Don’t worry, this isn’t a tutorial on how to perform a knife grip with your eyes; it’s not a fabled 11th knife grip to follow up the ten shown in workshops around the world by Messers Sundqvist. No, this is using your eyes for the purpose they are intended.

To see, not look.

So you’ve got a copy of the latest spoon carving book. If I’m up to date on this it should be Spon by none other than Barn the Spoon. A beautiful and inspiring book it is, filled with lots of photos that in recent months has encouraged many a new and experienced carver to have a go at a Barn made spoon. And as most have discovered, there is difficulty in replicating simplicity, which to me is the underlying beauty in many of Mr The Spoon’s creations.

But why is it so tricky? There are lots of reasons here, from being a carver still developing the dexterous skills to make such a spoon, to being an experienced carver set in their ways as to what works for them. The other reason, which can be overlooked, is that it’s too easy to fall into the trap of copying an image of a spoon by only looking at it holistically.

When your eyes fall over the overall image of a spoon and command your hands to copy what lies before them, they don’t pick up the function of individual parts, or the relationship of neighbouring sections before assembling them together in a seamless food shoveller or dolloper. They don’t see the spoon.

The same would go with making a spoon of your own design. Regardless of how long you spend on designing that elusive ‘perfect’ spoon, things probably won’t work out for you if you don’t see the spoon you are creating. The flow of the keel from the bowl to handle; the width of the neck in relation to the diameter of the bowl; the splay of the handle and how it enhances or clunkifies (real word in my world) the length of the spoon, and so on…

See that spoon, and when you’re ready, carve.

I think it was my favourite spoon carving ogre, Pat, who threw it out there a few months back, asking what makes a good spoon carver. There were lots of answers, and of course all were true, but in my humble opinion a good spoon carver starts with the eyes and ends with the hands (using other body parts along the way). Yes it’s important to always learn, to listen and to be humble, but these things make you a better human being, not necessarily a better carver. Being a better human is of course more important than being a top notch carver. Well just, anyway. But if you can nail the design by seeing the spoon, and build your tool skills over time, then you will end up a bloody good carver, like Pat. Check out Pat’s work over at @klipnockywoods on Instagram and you will see a carver who knows and sees every part of the spoon he’s creating.

Of course the irony of all this is I’ve been carving and squinting at little spoons for so long now that I’ve completely stuffed my eyesight. Oh well.

Peace & whittles,

J.D.

Photo by: Liam Edward Brennan

Giant woody stalks & Gollum

Thinking of landscape. If not for the young deserts and arctic plains of this world, there will always be the presence of stalks in these wide open vistas. I’m talking giant woody stalks, hefty and rough, gnarled, twisted, knuckled and so straight and tall they seem to punch their way into the heavens.

There are always trees. Or perhaps better put, there must always be trees.

Tear landscape down the middle and you get a conjunction of either two verbs or nouns that amount to the same thing. For the realists the joining of land+scape translates as ‘surface stalks’, a startling nod to trees that says a landscape ain’t a landscape if it ain’t got no trees. And for the romantics, the verbs of land+scape reveal the inner desire to break free, to bring in an escape, the great escape, which many people envisage as a land of milk and honey, and trees.

I love these giant woody stalks. The small ones too. They cause me to stand still whenever I’m in their yard and I just listen to the world they make. I prefer them standing any day, but I make wooden spoons, I need them for my craft and soul in more ways than one.

So sometimes I need to bring an axe to their yard. I’m conflicted every time, but I go about my business in a certain way that works well in the end.

Here’s what I do.

When the the last slither of wood has been used in the spoon shed, then it’s off to source another tree. I’m lucky to live in a spot where lots of folk have big bushy acreages, so getting to know a few people with trees aplenty in their backyards is a great start.

A good friend of mine has a lot of blackwood on his property, and with it’s tendency to topple over in storms this gives me a great source of wood that has lasted me the past few years.

If I ever need to take down a tree, I look for a few things which are quite the opposite to what other woody folk are looking for. A spoon is small, it (in my opinion) looks better when it has wonky bits, and the closest to load bearing you get is lifting spoonfuls of my notoriously stodgy risotto! So the old adage of looking for towering straight grained beauties doesn’t really apply.

I’d rather the big old trees survive, so I go looking for twisted and stooped looking trees that closer resemble Gollum than an Olympic athlete. What’s more, I go looking for trees that have little chance of making the big time; ones that are growing sluggishly in the shadow of others, or are growing so close to another tree that ultimately both will cark it unless one of them decides to throw itself in front of an axe.

These are my spoon trees. I cherish them deeply; remember where they fall and revisit them to use as much as I possibly can. I want our landscapes forever populated by these giant woody stalks. They mean more to us than the much vented ‘lungs of the earth’ thing, because we too are within these landscapes. We grow alongside trees as they grow alongside us.

If you’re interested in what Australian tree species work best for spoon carving, then stay tuned for another post some time where I’ll list the ones I use most…bear in mind there are more than 5000 species on this little island, so we’ll just scratch the surface!

Peace & whittles,
JD.

It came down

Memories of a big old peppermint gum I was asked to take down some years back…

My hands grip old wood. It’s smooth with a patina of work and aged grime that’s both comforting and expectant. This is a good axe, a woodsman’s tool used to bite with certainty into the girth of trees. Generations of woodsmen have wielded this axe as I do now, standing at the base of a towering gum and looking at the exact flake of peppermint bark where the blade will first strike. Or should strike. I imagine the eyes of old woodsmen checking my feet, hand position, tightness of grip (not too tight) and the place where the giant tree will fall. Better get this right.

“Drop it in the clearing,” I’m told by a man who is as tangled, prickly and fresh as the scrub around me. I hesitate a little because a lean in the trunk runs to the left of the clearing and towards a dense section of undergrowth punched through by some commanding stringybarks. The axe sways casually in my hands and I look up with his words hanging in my ears.

Richard Jermyn’s voice is educated and deep. I’ve not known him long enough to call him an old bushie but already I know that he’s a philosopher of wooded groves and hidden spots among the trees. His words have the same patina as the axe handle. His face and neck have more creases than banksia bark and he squints at the overcast sky as he traces his finger, moving in an arc to show how and where the tree will fall. It’s a simple instruction accompanied with no element of how the tree should be steered to the right patch of earth, but it’s all I need. Richard is confident, and so I am confident.

The axe handle slides through my left hand, pushed by my right hand that holds with just enough strength around the heel and toe at the end of the shaft. My body simultaneously twists away from the tree as my arms straighten and hands meet before grasping harder around the handle and springing back with body, upper limbs, hands and mind all focusing intently on the flake of peppermint bark.

The kick from the bite is brief before a flick of each wrist frees the blade ready for strike number two. No time or need to reposition, just return, spring and strike again, watching as bark and sapwood bursts from the wound.

About 15 minutes pass and an almighty thump, preceded by the hiss of branches, twigs and leaves careening like a giant minute hand through the forest canopy and onto the clearing below indicates that the tree has succumbed as intended.

I look at the axe head and the edge is shining from a natural polish that comes from slicing repeatedly through fresh wood. I rest it against the raw stump and look down past my heaving chest to my open hands. They ache and the handle’s grime has spread to the creases in my palms, but most noticeably they, and I, feel magnificent, accomplished, and a little bit proud.

The autumn sun has dipped from sight behind the mountainous Wadbilliga wilderness area that flanks the village of Bemboka at the foot of the Great Dividing Range in southern NSW. It’ll be a cold night, but a new day on Gaia Range Farm will soon blow the chill away as we go to work with our hands and tools.

I leave Richard tending the camp fire with a small band of people who have signed up for a workshop of remembering lost and forgotten trades. Tomorrow Richard and I will guide them through a method of carpentry that uses a simple gumbo of sharp steel, strong hands and attuned senses to make things from trees.

A rocky track leads to my caravan dwelling in the bush and I attempt sleep. I lie as still as the fallen gum, but the wombat who insists on using the caravan as a scratching post has other ideas.

Photo by Michael Griffin

Peace & whittles,
JD.

Just go

I once I saw a woman crying in the doorway of an empty shop. I didn’t linger or offer a hand as somebody was already there. As I passed I heard the woman sobbing that no one will ever love her.

Only moments before I had brushed past a collection of dazed individuals. None of them anything to do with the next; just a dusting of lost souls blowing around the the downtown streets. I would later learn of their prevalence; shifting it would seem from one street to the next until the warm city breeze forced them to rest in doorways unoccupied by crying women.

I would see another lady blowing rage through her nose like a bull. A man at war with a public telephone, punching and growling at the motionless booth as if waiting for it to retaliate. I would see a woman hanging on to a body she lost long ago; not stolen by the rigours of time, but robbed by the men who stake claim to her flesh as if it were their own. She hung there in the dark, waiting, not selling, and praying possibly for a quiet night.

This was Sydney, a magnet for visitors and some say the most liveable spot on the planet. So why so many people starved of life?

Why is it we’re drawn to cities like moths to a candle when so often all they offer in return is lost hope for those who don’t make it, and gut wrenching pressure and stress for those who’ve apparently succeeded? Promise, hope and the seduction of power may have something to do with it, pinned as we are by the alluring nature of dough.

So a simplistic answer: leave now before it’s too late. Just go.

Empty the cities, relieve their bulging walls. Take misery and hardship for a long walk and who knows, it may loosen its grip. Cities are the epitome of assbackwardness; they defy the simple human inclination for migration to a land of plenty, because plenty has and should have nothing to do with a salary, an Elizabeth Street apartment or good coffee.

Our feet should be drawn towards the sustenance of the spirit and soul, towards the simple things that keep us going: companionship, good food, discovery, making, and having the freedom to roam with body and mind. Somewhere over that horizon, I suspect is happiness.

And then there was another woman. Older this time and sitting with her grey-haired partner on the plane leaving Sydney. She was excited; soon she and her partner were heading on their own journey to walk the entire 227km Camino trail in Spain. No tent. No sleeping bag. Just the two of them and the long trail ahead. They were taking a gamble, but more importantly they had not lost sight of hope and promise as reachable goals when viewed in a simple way. I have a feeling that if they get lost on their way they’ll find a new horizon that looks friendly enough and there they will head.

To leave is to arrive. Worth remembering maybe.

Peace & whittles,
JD.

Love your spoons

Dressing your beautiful new hand carved spoon up is a personal thing; some people like a raw spoon that ages and develops a beautiful patina through years of use, and others like a sleek and shiny little number that sits pride of place on the spoon rack.

Whatever your choice, there are some basic things you can do that will see you and your spoon growing old together. Put simply, wash it after you use it by running it under a tap and then leave it to air dry. Don’t soak it as this may cause the wood to split, and don’t pop it in the dishwasher unless you want to go with that pre-aged look.

Now if you want to treat it, a really good thing to use is a homemade oil and beeswax blend. It’s super easy to make, completely food safe and is handy for adding a bit of shine to any bit of wood lying around the house.

This is what you do: mix four parts organic coconut oil* with one part beeswax by heating gently in a water bath (the same gentle way you melt chocolate). Stir until everything is a clear liquid. Pour into a jar and set aside to cool where it will turn into a beautiful smelling white paste.  Pop the lid on the jar and Bob’s your uncle, you have your own home made wood treatment that is so food safe it’s actually edible!

*Now, choice of oil can be a bit controversial among spoonies. I’ve seen big arguments arise from this subject, which is completely silly. Here’s the thing, oils for the purpose of treating wood are split into three types: non-polymerising oils (this means they are not a ‘drying oil’ and won’t form a thin protective shell as it dries). Coconut oil is a non-polymerising oil, so it won’t hold up as long as the second type of oil, a polymerising oil. These are oils like linseed/flax oil, they soak in and as they dry - which can take up to six months (!) they will give that thin film of protection. The thing is, in the turbid and hot world of cooking pots, the polymerised protection won’t last that long, so in my opinion you are better off with the non-polymerised coconut oil, which smells better, is non-greasy, doesn’t colour the wood, and I’ve never had any go rancid on me. Sure, you will need to reapply more often, but it’s a good excuse to feel all those tool marks and lines you carved into your spoon. Yes it’s spoon fondling…if you’re a spoonerd you’ll understand.

And finally, the third type of oil are the cocktail oils: a bit of this and a bit of that and sometimes you get some great oils. Some of them stink to high heaven when you apply them but as they dry this smell will go away. Mineral oil comes under this category and this cheeky little fellow gets some folk more riled than anything else. Personally, I don’t use it because it is concocted from petrochemicals and the world doesn’t need any more of these. But in terms of how well it performs as an oil, it’s great and I know some fantastic carvers who use it every day. But really, the only ‘rule’ you need to follow, is use only food safe oils…so no motor oil or diesel!

Now we have that out of the way, all you need to do is slather your spoon in the paste, really massage it into the pores, and then buff off the excess with a cloth. You’ll end up with a spoon that likes to show off its lustre and vibrant grain to all its mass produced stainless steel compatriots.

Keep what’s left over and reapply whenever the wood is looking a little dry and tired.

If you don’t have coconut oil you can use other oils like food grade flax/linseed seed oil (can spontaneously combust if left on cotton rags, and your spoon will smell like a cricket bat!), or nut oils, but be wary of sharing the spoon with people who may have a nut allergy. Oh, and never use boiled linseed oil because it contains nasties. There I go talking about oil types again!

If you are oiling a cooking spoon that spends a lot of time in the hot stuff, forget about the beeswax and just use the oil, because the wax hangs only around the surface and will quickly melt into your lovely curry, and beeswax, while it smells lovely, tastes bloody horrible.

And that’s it…enjoy your beautiful new spoon!

Peace & whittles,
JD.