The marks of life

    It has been a while since my last post.  Life threw a few curveballs, precipitating a move to a new home, a new job for my spouse, new schools for the kids, a new commute for me, etc...  The dust is settling now, literally, as we finish renovating, much of the work we did ourselves (demo, paint, flooring, kitchen, doors, trim, etc...)  Now a new normal is settling in, allowing for a little more time to enjoy life and heal from the transition.

    And so, this past weekend we took time out for ourselves and went to the local country fair.  The weather was glorious, clear, and crisp, and the foliage was near its peak.  Changing leaves always make me wistful and nostalgic, as they so clearly announce the passage of time.  And so we seized the moment, eating ridiculous fried food, wondering at the enormity and power of oxen, and watching the kids spin themselves silly on rickety rides. 

    We also enjoyed the local craft offerings, of which there were many.  So many skilled craftspeople in our area, especially the quilters and potters.  Around here, there are always more of these folk than woodturners.  Of the turners that I do come across, they generally seem to be working in the same genre: electric lathes, dry wood, and lots and lots of sanding.  The end result shows off the grain of the wood to be sure, but to me, it invariably looks machine-made.  Any sign of life, in the wood itself or in the marks left by the maker, has been obliterated--dried, sanded, and polished out of existence.  The skills demonstrated are admirable, but I am not personally drawn to the end product.  And this is pretty much the only type of turning represented at my local craft fairs.

    As my life settles down and I can again return to turning, I am reminded of what draws me to this process.   I love the way greenwood moves, the way it exerts its own energy and takes the form it wants.  I appreciate the marks left by the maker--the turning cuts and even the axe scars that bear testimony to the hand that made the object.  I enjoy observing paint wear with use, marking the passage of time, like seasons changing and leaves falling in autumn.