Who takes a woodworking class?
The demands and attractions of modern life suggest very few, if anybody should be interested in making furniture. Firstly, you can buy perfectly good furniture for far, far less than the cost of tools and materials to make your own. Secondly, it takes years to learn how to do it well (though, admittedly, some students assume it's all quite easy, that there's just this one weird trick to it all, which they'll pick up in few classes before they're a master). Furthermore, it's physically demanding. It's dusty. It's noisy (with power tools). It's dangerous. And who has the time? Retirees excepted, who has the energy after an average workweek?
And yet.
Beginner classes at the Chicago School of Woodworking are full. The smiles on day one only grow by the last class. The intermediate and advanced classes are also full.
But ask anyone for an explanation of what they get out of it, and the "I-dunno-I-just-love-it" replies pile up.
Go figure.
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As with everything of value in life, it's the question that matters, not the answer. Words are always inadequate to our deepest and most powerful experiences. What it like to propose marriage? What's like to give birth? or witness a birth? Can you describe the experience of climbing to the top of a mountain? Words fail.
I think that thoughtful handwork, which is creating something useful and beautiful for another person, is one of the deepest and most powerful experiences in life.
No words come close to explaining it, or motivating anyone to do it. But once we try, once we persist past doubt, I think the vast majority of us will find a deep delight and satisfaction in thoughtful handwork. It's true of all hand crafts, not just woodworking.
I see students with furrowed brows, waiting to use the tablesaw. The noise is loud, the danger real. They're deep in thought, probably wondering if they have cut anything too short, or what mistake they will make next. But I'll interrupt their reverie and ask "Are you having fun yet?" Out of their trance, they invariably reply, "this is great!" And it is. They are having a blast. Even the worry about mistakes is kind of fun. "It'll all come out in the wash." I assure them. "Fixing mistakes is part of the learning process," I note, and they ponder that freedom.
Of course, the very last class, when they take the clamps off their completed tables, is the most full of smiles, even shouts. For there it is, the product of their labors. And those tables look great. And they are pleased as punch. They can't wait to get theirs home and show their families and friends.
If you make, you know. You also can laugh at your "I-dunno-I-just-love-it" explanations to friends and family.
If you don't make, well, I can't explain it to you. I can tell you all day long why, and how (and that is fascinating stuff--I wrote a book on it The Joy of Workmanship). But those explanations don't motivate nearly as much as your own curiosity mixed with a pinch of persistence.
Try it, you'll like it.
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