There’s a discreet autonomy in making things with one’s own hands that teeters on self-reliant rebellion. Carpentry worked it’s way into my life two decade ago with the solace of a necessity met. I apprehended some of its tools from my sailboat-making father while others were consolidated in the lone labyrinths of my errors and trials.
At the intersection of where a profession is forged and chance has its way, I found 25 acres of wooded mountain refuge in NY State from where much of the timber used in my furniture originates. My time is divided between this burgeoning homestead and the river-ward neighborhoods of Philadelphia.
