Craftsmanship or Good Enough Is Not
There is a certain presence that has its place in a corner of my mind just behind my eyes. I call it a presence because it has a life of its own. This is my quality control inspector. The inspector has a mind/soul independent of me. I can, as I often do, be looking at a flute in progress. The flute has just completed a particular operation and is being held in front of my eyes. It looks good. But, from a certain angle there is something not quite right. Not there. It is good enough. However, the quality inspector says go back and make another minor adjustment. Good enough is not.
It’s not about making a perfect flute. The perfection I’m after is to be sought in the act of creating not the object being created.
Have I reached my ideal of what it means to be a craftsman? No. Am I striving for it? Yes. I will know I am there when the quality inspector not longer needs to be present. There is an aspect of my approach to my craft that is too goal oriented. I want to get things done, to see results, to finish product. Let’s face it - to make money. After all “time is money” is it not? In the midst of that ‘time is money’ space there is a discernable urge to let the ‘good enough’ be. Put that flute down and go on to the next flute. Oh, thank you God for the inspector. Or is God in the inspector? Saying - wait a minute, let’s look at that flute again. Let’s look at you again. I know when I feel that message that I have strayed away from the center. I am not a Craftsman I am a flute maker.
I consider it a great Grace to hear and be given the strength to act on that admonition. Having acknowledged the message, how can I not make the necessary shift in consciousness? I reorient the center of what I am and what I am doing. This shift is not about making better flutes – although better flutes will result. It’s about being a better me. Being a Craftsman and not a flute maker.
When I embody Craftsmanship the inspector is no longer needed. He is no longer present. In fact he not longer exists. The shift from goal orientation to a process orientation is complete and self-fulfilling. Being there in the work. Where every movement is part of a dance and the dance is the dance of Life. Colors and dimensions deepen and richen. Not making money to support a life. Centered in the middle of Life. Knowing with certitude that this is all that is necessary. Letting Life take care of providing the money.
Facing the Great Unknown
Friday, December 26, 2008
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Craftsmanship, Tools, Time and the Native American Flute
I have devoted myself to perfecting the craft of making a Native American Style flute. This is not a goal that I set out for myself with conscious awareness. It took place spontaneously. As often happens in life working with the flutes has provided me the opportunity to discover different aspects of my self.
My father was a craftsman of the old school German tradition. He acquired his craftsmanship mentality from his father and from his early training a cabinetmaker. I must confess that I did not inherit his tradition of craftsmanship willingly. My apprenticeship started at an early age. This apprenticeship consisted of standing by my fathers’ bench as he worked on whatever project inspired him at the moment. I would much rather have been outside playing with my friends.
When my father wanted a tool he would ask me to hand it to him. If he needed a third or fourth hand mine was available to him. I cursed the idle time in which I would stand at the ready for his next command. My heart was filled with anger as I dreamed of the ball game that was going on in my absence. But in spite of these negative emotions and without my being aware of it I was absorbing a tradition of Craftsmanship.
In that space at his bench my father loved what he was doing. It was not his job. It was his passion. He was absorbed in the process of creation. In spite of his austere, distant and silent demeanor part of this passion must have been passed unconsciously to me. He worked silently not talking about what he was doing. His lessons were not communicated verbally. There were few explanations. What was communicated was an attitude of concentrated effort and respect for the tools that enabled you to do your project.
My fathers tools were hung on a board above his bench. Each tool had its image painted on the board and a shelf or hooks that held the tool. A tool was taken from its place when it was needed. Its painted image remained on the board as a reminder. This was its home to which it would be returned when its job was completed. I realize now that these tools had a certain extra ordinary presence. I was not allowed to use these tools. God himself would have been in peril if one of those tools were to be missing from its place.
I grew up in an era when money was real. A new tool was a precious acquisition to be chosen with care. I can remember the Christmas when my father got his first electric drill. How pleased he was with that Black and Decker metal-bodied 3/8ths inch hand held drill. You would have thought it was made of gold. The drills electrical cord was kept coiled and tied with a string when not in use. The chuck key was taped carefully to the cord so it would be handy when needed. A place was made for it and its outline was painted on the board. Of course, I was not allowed to use it. To this day I choose each of my tools with care. I will agonize over tool catalogues, read reviews and seek advice before committing to an acquisition that will be with me for a lifetime.
He died at the age of forty-three. I was sixteen years old. I still have a few of his tools. They have been with me now for fifty years. I have little need for them in my work. They are reminders of a technology that was made obsolete many years ago by the advent of power tools. A hand drill, a brace and bits, various handsaws, a couple of hammers, some hand planes. They rest in drawers and on shelves in my shop. If I had the space I would display them like the antiques they are. Once in a while I’ll take them out, clean them and wipe on a fresh protective coat of oil.
There is a respectful satisfaction that goes with picking up a well maintained tool from its appointed place. Each tool has its history. How it was developed. Where it was made. When it was acquired. The objects it has contributed to making. Some tools are irreplaceable. Old and good companies go out of business for one reason or another. The tools they made were beyond compare and perhaps never to be equaled again. I watch a treasured chisel shorten with each sharpening. The cutting edge grows closer to the temper line on the steel. Will it last my lifetime? I am growing closer to the end of my craftsman’s life also.
For more information about John Stillwell and his Ancient Territories Native American style flutes visit http://atflutes.com/
My father was a craftsman of the old school German tradition. He acquired his craftsmanship mentality from his father and from his early training a cabinetmaker. I must confess that I did not inherit his tradition of craftsmanship willingly. My apprenticeship started at an early age. This apprenticeship consisted of standing by my fathers’ bench as he worked on whatever project inspired him at the moment. I would much rather have been outside playing with my friends.
When my father wanted a tool he would ask me to hand it to him. If he needed a third or fourth hand mine was available to him. I cursed the idle time in which I would stand at the ready for his next command. My heart was filled with anger as I dreamed of the ball game that was going on in my absence. But in spite of these negative emotions and without my being aware of it I was absorbing a tradition of Craftsmanship.
In that space at his bench my father loved what he was doing. It was not his job. It was his passion. He was absorbed in the process of creation. In spite of his austere, distant and silent demeanor part of this passion must have been passed unconsciously to me. He worked silently not talking about what he was doing. His lessons were not communicated verbally. There were few explanations. What was communicated was an attitude of concentrated effort and respect for the tools that enabled you to do your project.
My fathers tools were hung on a board above his bench. Each tool had its image painted on the board and a shelf or hooks that held the tool. A tool was taken from its place when it was needed. Its painted image remained on the board as a reminder. This was its home to which it would be returned when its job was completed. I realize now that these tools had a certain extra ordinary presence. I was not allowed to use these tools. God himself would have been in peril if one of those tools were to be missing from its place.
I grew up in an era when money was real. A new tool was a precious acquisition to be chosen with care. I can remember the Christmas when my father got his first electric drill. How pleased he was with that Black and Decker metal-bodied 3/8ths inch hand held drill. You would have thought it was made of gold. The drills electrical cord was kept coiled and tied with a string when not in use. The chuck key was taped carefully to the cord so it would be handy when needed. A place was made for it and its outline was painted on the board. Of course, I was not allowed to use it. To this day I choose each of my tools with care. I will agonize over tool catalogues, read reviews and seek advice before committing to an acquisition that will be with me for a lifetime.
He died at the age of forty-three. I was sixteen years old. I still have a few of his tools. They have been with me now for fifty years. I have little need for them in my work. They are reminders of a technology that was made obsolete many years ago by the advent of power tools. A hand drill, a brace and bits, various handsaws, a couple of hammers, some hand planes. They rest in drawers and on shelves in my shop. If I had the space I would display them like the antiques they are. Once in a while I’ll take them out, clean them and wipe on a fresh protective coat of oil.
There is a respectful satisfaction that goes with picking up a well maintained tool from its appointed place. Each tool has its history. How it was developed. Where it was made. When it was acquired. The objects it has contributed to making. Some tools are irreplaceable. Old and good companies go out of business for one reason or another. The tools they made were beyond compare and perhaps never to be equaled again. I watch a treasured chisel shorten with each sharpening. The cutting edge grows closer to the temper line on the steel. Will it last my lifetime? I am growing closer to the end of my craftsman’s life also.
For more information about John Stillwell and his Ancient Territories Native American style flutes visit http://atflutes.com/
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