I Built a Dresser in our Backyard


One of the surprising quirks of my life is that I've been making furniture pretty much all of the adult part of that life. 

I think the first piece was a bed platform I built for a design class in 1983. Over the years simple bookcases became whole libraries of shelving and then a coffee table showed up and eventually wardrobes and sideboards too. Quite a few pieces of furniture in our house I actually made. 

I did it with the skills of a properties artisan who built a lot of theatre furniture in a hurry. I built furniture that was durable and looked like "real furniture" from 15 feet away. There were sheets of plywood and screws involved.  It's the kind of furniture when scratched, you might touch it up with a Sharpie. I have actually done that.

I have some skills, but they're incomplete and "Furniture As Art" just makes me feel inadequate and I don't know where to set my drink on it. I'm not a "furniture maker" like some centerfold in Fine Woodworking magazine*. 

I mean, yes, I make furniture. 

Sometimes. 

When we need it.

Or when I was looking at the Ikea website because Carolyn needed a bigger dresser and I just got so sad looking at what they were selling.

Which is why I ended up in our backyard in Albany making Carolyn that dresser.

You see, I don't have a shop anymore. There's no space here for it. My tools are ancient. My table saw is over 30 years old and is attached to a rolling stand that you have to hit with a hammer to fold up. They both live in the garden shed. Our neighbors are just a few feet away so it's not like I can wander out at 6am and start routing bevels into counter tops. It's a yard. It's grass. It's not even slightly flat and if I dump varnish on it, it dies and Carolyn gives me "the look".

On the other hand, I had pretty low expectations and I was genuinely curious to see if I could pull this off, so off we went to Valente Lumber in Averill Park to pick out the wood. Valente's is sort of a cross between a lumber yard, a farm to table restaurant, and a "you-pick" blueberry patch. They mill their own logs, you rummage around their barns to find the boards you need; they don't even care if you use their chop saws to get your boards cut to a length you can shove in a Subaru though you need to shoo away the chickens wandering around the barn to use them. They will judge you for driving a Subaru. They also really, really prefer cash so they'll judge you for using credit and charge you 5% for not knowing that. Carolyn of course loved the place, made friends with all the yard crew there, and will not let me go back there without her.

I sometimes think I do better work when I get the humiliation over with at the beginning. 

Carolyn went to visit Anne in San Francisco for a week so I really spread out in the backyard. Well, I spread out as much as a could with an eye on the weather radar so I could fold it all up in 15 minutes if  a storm blew in. 


 

As it all came together and I could see what I was making, I settled down to the familiar rhythm of cut lists, assembly, and finishing. I thought about what I was doing and why I was doing it. Why spend $500 in materials and dozens of hours of labor, to make a dresser in my back yard that is functionally no better than a $300 flat pack Ikea job? That's a fair question.

I realized the best pieces I've made were created in diminished circumstances. Most were made in a barn on thrown together tables with no heat and extension cords running everywhere. Mistakes were made. Putty was used. They were mutts but I never had any doubt that they would serve their purposes and look good doing them. I'm serious when I say I'm not a fine woodworker. That would be an insult to a noble craft and the dedicated artists who pursue that craft. That's not what I want from the process; from my process.

Some years ago  I settled on the phrase "mindful inefficiency". That's me. The masters of this craft know the outcome of their efforts before they start. You can't wing dovetail joints. It all has to pencil out from the outset. Every step is precise and weighted with intention. One step leads to the next.  My process is a bit more um, fluid.

I've tried writing that process out but in truth, I don't want to. There's lots wrong with how I do things but in the end, how I do things brings me peace. I find it familiar and calming. That's enough. There are certainly cheaper ways to bring a dresser into your life. My way makes me happier.

The dresser came out pretty good. We switched from rough barn board to pine for much of the carcass at the lumber yard. The cherry top (get it) was shiny but I hated how it felt so I spent a morning hand sanding it down to 1000 grit. It's less glossy but feels like glass. The second drawer is binding a bit when closing it because the carcass is like an 1/8" out of square so I need to shim the glide hardware. That's so me.

Carolyn loves it.

*Sadly, Fine Woodworking magazine has never had centerfolds. I made that up.

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