On Thursday I high-tailed it to Melbourne to meet a man named Roy Turner. Amongst many things (mechanical engineer, cartographer responsible for the maps of Australia we still use) he is a phenomenally skilled marquetarian who has reached the age where he is no longer able to make anything. I've been blessed to be allowed to purchase his life's collection of veneer, some spectacularly rare, and tools, some made by him and truly one-of-a-kind.
It's a hard feeling to receive something like this. It's intensely emotional and at the same time the greedy little kid in me is like Augustus Gloop — mine! more! I watched a man grieve the loss of everything he built his life around, and all I could think about was what I was going to use the flame mahogany for.
It's Arthur's party today. Three years old. Currently en-robed in wrapping paper, en-smothered with ketchup and en-crusted with pastry crumbs from half a dozen homemade sausage rolls. En-circled by a stack of new possessions, this little proto-person is beginning the same accumulation Roy just ended.
I can count the number of things I've bought for Arthur on one finger — a giant stuffed dog that only his brother plays with. I'm pretty ruthless when it comes to acquiring more stuff. I have The Test. I am disciplined. I am principled. And yet the Stuff has found a way in anyway, and now I have Roy's lifetime of inputs to add to my own.
The flow of Stuff only seems to go one way. The accumulation in my workshop is the staggering proof: I've output perhaps 30 complete furniture pieces over the last few years, plus the odd coaster and spatula. As far as solo furniture-makers go that's an output to be proud of. Yet I've input hundreds upon hundreds of individual items, a mass unreasonably exceeding any output. Life, it seems, despite our best efforts is 90% in and 10% out (except for money, which proves the rule by reversing it).
Even the outs come back in sometimes: a table — the Toona Australis folding table — came back for rework this week.
But... I do so enjoy pootling in my workshop, en-robed in dust, en-smothered in sweat and en-crusted with shavings. Surrounded by HNT Gordon and vintage Stanley and Record and Harold & Saxon chisels. And spindle moulders and bandsaws. My lovely lovely inputs. Especially when it means I can hide from the children's party going on just one layer of colour-bond away.
I'm fiddling with Roy's micrometer and lovingly fondling my new-to-me set of OG Sorby firmer chisels. Roy's boys didn't want any of it, which is why I have the micrometer in my hand and a garage stuffed to the rafters with priceless veneer. Will my children be interested in any of this, or will my life's work be sold for a song to a stranger? What is the point of any of this, really.
Time to go. A small voice on the other side of the steel just reminded me what the point is. And apparently it's time for cake.