A Stick Chair - A Week-long class

Just another day at work, scrolling my emails, when I see this post and start to get excited....

A week long class in stick chair making, taught by Chris Schwarz, in a beautiful town, only 2 hours from my house!

Because of my social isolation as a woodworker Chris has become the closest thing I have to a mentor. His book The Anarchist's Tool Chest was the all the encouragement I needed to finally try to be the woodworker I always wanted to be as a kid.

My handmade copy of Anarchist's Tool Chest

My mind was immediately flooded with visceral visions of accidently calling him 'Dad' in response to praise. So of course I had paid the considerable portion of my net-worth and booked my leave within the hour.

For a long time I had been seeking the opportunity for feedback on my work, operations, and tools. Learning woodworking entirely in isolation leaves a lot of guessing for what was the error when something doesn't go to plan, and a lot does not go to plan. I was also just excited to spend a week surrounded by my peers, people who also engage with woodworking in the same ways I do.

And then my anxiety and insecurity set in.

The tool list required had quite a number of tools I was not in possession of and came with a warning of: "When you arrive, your tools should be sharp and ready to go. There won’t be time to restore vintage tools or set up new tools in this workshop."

This petrified me, and as the months rolled far too quickly along, I found myself with more and more anxiety about the class. I felt like I barely have a grip on my tools and some are simply not working properly. I didn't even have all the tools until the very day I drove down.

I quickly realized I'd be in a room of middle aged white men, a group I can sometimes have trouble connecting with, all the while I'll be the most inexperienced man in the room (having not made a single piece of furniture before).

The anxiety of not being ready grew and grew, quickly it was so overwhelming as to get in the way of me preparing at all.

I booked accommodation to try to get excited, a beautiful campsite by the beach at Broken Head, but this does not fill me with the feelings I know it should. I worry that I'm not ready, that I'm taking someone's spot who deserves it more than me, that this class is for real woodworkers and I'm not one.

The night before the first day was rough, I had to push start my car by myself at 11pm in the middle of nowhere and arrived at camp so late, to avoid waking everyone up with hammering in pegs, I had to sleep in my car. But in spite all of this, the first day had finally arrived...

I'd seen pictures, so I knew to expect a pretty venue, but the Newrybar Community Hall was a breath taking space. Hard wood floors, greenery all around, views from every window and earned patina. It was a little magic to be in that space after so much preparation.

Some small introductions happen with some of my fellow classmates and then we are quickly getting ready to work. My anxiety only continues as these men I've just met confidently pull out there Veritas, Lie Neilson, and H.N.T Gordon tools from their beautifully made tool chests and I quickly feel like I'm not supposed to be here. I sheepishly pull out my my FB Marketplace, garage sale and farmers market tools in assorted states of disrepair.

We swiftly launch into our first day of work and I quickly realise my block plane isn't working so I quickly shuffle into the back room and try to sharpen on someone else's sharpening stones and only make it blunter. After the other amazing teacher, Bern Chandley kindly sharpened my iron for me, I felt it still was not doing what I needed it to do (although I couldn't be sure with my incompetency). It was incredibly frustrating and is a very typical experience of my work at home, only this time I feel more embarrassed in front of these good woodworkers and was now behind in the class.

As we swept up for the day, my bench mate Ian warmly came over and (without judgement) asked to have a look at my plane. He showed me how the sole of it wasn't flat, that it needed lapping, and that the iron was pitted. Without missing a beat, he graciously asked if he to take the plane home and sharpen the iron and lap the sole. I felt completely overwhelmed by this generosity from a near stranger.

Back at camp, sat by the ocean and I journaled out my frustrations and insecurities and tried to ready myself to do my best.

The next morning Ian places my plane on the bench, respectfully wrapped in a cloth, a gesture that made me feel very warm. He humbly explained to me what he had done, how he had lapped it and sharpened the plane. Once I got that plane to my work, I quickly realised this was the tool I was supposed to be using and it was quickly my favourite tool to use over the full week. This kindness Ian showed I will remember for all my days.

Over the five days, there were many warm acts of community like this. For example, Matt (a chair maker teacher himself) provided me tips on how to use a rasp after seeing me struggle from across the room. Like a grind stone, these acts wore me down into feeling more connected to this community. Their warmth and encouragement made me feel like I could share this space beside them as an equal.

We worked harder than I've ever worked at my hobby, full time hours for 5 days. It felt gooooood.

Motivating myself to get into the shop has been a key struggle for my hobby and a major component of my insecurity. Getting to work at that pace forced me to push past the difficulty and into flow state, it reminded me of how good it feels to labour so hard (I work in an office, so its been a while). Being a young man, raised in a world surrounded my immediate dopamine, this was an amazing reminder that I both can work that hard and that I need to work that hard.

Chris' unwavering passion for his work and the craft is a large reason why I'm where I am today, so being in a room with that authentic, balls-to-the-wall drive to share what you care about has electrified me. I'm only 25, so I have so much time to achieve so much, I just need to continue to care as hard as he cares and if I achieve even a portion of his work, I'll die a fulfilled man.

Everyone else in this class shared the same passion, it was thick in the air and it was intoxicating. That space, those folk, it made work a dream.

Of course, over the week I ran into more difficulties but I slowly found myself more accepting of my work and better equip to ask for help. Comparing my progress to my shopmates progress transitioned from focusing on how much better their work was, to recognising how close I had gotten to the quality of their work (when viewing at a minimum 3m distance). I also found myself celebrating everyone else's great work, as much as celebrating my own.

It was a big, exhausting week of a lot of big emotions and physical labour, but as my chair started to look like a chair, feelings of pride started to stir.

It was late in the afternoon on the final day, and I had been the last to finish. I stared at the freshly waxed chair in the afternoon light, glimmering through the trees. I had a beer in hand and good men by my side and I realised that I hadn't, before that moment, truly felt like a woodworker.

I feel happy to finally belong.