A CARPENTER'S STORY - BEGINNINGS

Well I did it, I finally did it. Three years of my life, dedicated to learning. But now I am a qualified Carpenter/Joiner, City and Guilds Level 3. At least that is what the certificates will say when they finally arrive through my letter box. I can officially say, I have changed my occupation from graphic artist to carpenter or chippy. But I can honestly say I don't really feel that I can really call myself a carpenter just yet. I still feel more comfortable in front of a computer screen with a mouse in my hand, getting to grips with Photoshop, than I do with hanging a new street door and fitting all the locks.

To call yourself a carpenter/joiner you need many years of practice and experience. At 52 years if, God willing, I reach retirement, I might be able to say, yes I was a carpenter. Working as a maintenance man for Southwark Council is probably not the best environment to hone and practise your new skills as a carpenter, youre more likely to be handling, plastic and chipboard than timber. But maybe I will touch on that in another blog in the future.

The craft of carpentry goes back to the very beginning of man's existence on this earth. I remember many years ago doing a series of Bible talks for some young people on a camp. The subject was Noah. I told the children that Noah had a lot in common with Jesus, who would arrive many years later. Noah as well as being a preacher and a saviour, was a carpenter too. He had to be a skilled carpenter if he was a going to build an ark or gopher wood, which would be used to save the world. Jesus was firstly a carpenter, then a preacher and finally a saviour, crucified on a cross of wood.

My journey into carpentry has much more humble beginnings, and there is no large amounts of water involved, thank goodness! Though once, when putting back some floors in a council house, I did manage to place a screw directly into a copper water pipe. Thankfully, that day, a plumber was on hand, to put right a potentially disastrous situation, avoid a flood and a call to Direct Line.

My journey started with my lovely Dad, Sidney Walter Whitton. My dad was never a carpenter, but like men of that generation, who had lived through the war, he seemed, to a young lad like myself, to be able to do just about everything: fix my bike, mend my toys and make things work that didn't. My dad had several jobs after the war, the most scary of which was that of a steeple jack. I have pictures of him at the top of these enormous tall chimneys, dangling there in very basic bosun's chair, a piece of wood and some rope. No hard hat, no safety clothing, just a bare torso, painting away, smiling and laughing, not scared at all. I miss my Dad terribly sometimes. Just writing this brings back so many memories. When Dad wasn't working, which he was, 6 full days a week, and half day on Sunday sometimes, up and down the country, he was making things at home. I think my mum missed him a great deal when he was working away from home. But when he made things, it was not always with wood but rather with metal like brass and aluminum. He made buses, canons, planes, a sword etc and all in miniature and from scratch, no kits. He would sit at a little table or in the kitchen, a cup of tea next to him, a woodbine cigarette smoking away in the ash try (in the days before he gave up and became addicted to Polo mints). There he would use a small vice, along with an assortment of tools and put together these one-of-a-kinds. My older brother Steve obviously inherited that love of all things metal. He worked with my dad for several years and went on to own his own foundry in Charlton.

But my dad also put his hand to making things out of wood. He made wooden forts for soldiers, a full size sewing box for mum, a miniature sewing box, a tiny model of the Cutty Sark, crib boards and small tables. One of the small tables he made, I can only describe as a double top table. On one top he painted a simple chess board and on the other a colourful bird. It's these memories that maybe placed a seed in me and gave me that interest in wood and the desire to make things.

I am 52 as I write this and some might say I have left it a bit late to life to begin a new career as a carpenter. For 32 years of my life, since leaving school in 1980, I worked in the print industry. For the greater part of those 32 years, I was an artworker or a graphic artist. I assumed that would always be my trade until retirement or death, whatever came first. But life doesn’t always turn out like you plan, or hope for. In my 32 years in the print I had just 4 jobs and pretty much continuous employment in that time. But then I lost my job, the details of which I have tried to forget. Thereafter followed a period of over 2 years where I was out of work. Anyone who has been out of work for a long period will know how difficult it is, especially when you have a family. It grinds you down, reduces your confidence, makes you feel useless, and make you think you'll never be employed again. But worst of all is the stigma that clings to you. That said, those two plus years had some real highs as well. The extra time I got to spend with my family was probably the biggest advantage. But also, in that time, I took a Post Graduate course in Design, became a volunteer gardener and took up wood carving.

Then one day a friend I knew at Southwark Council suggested, “why don't you try for one of the apprenticeships on offer at the council”. I thought to myself “me an apprentice, at the age of 49, your joking....aren’t apprentices young people who have just left school, still covered in spots and living with mum and dad? What hope do I have of becoming an apprentice at my age, married with 4 children?”

But, I swallowed what pride I had left and looked at the vacancies on offer. Amongst the list of various office jobs, there was also a sign maker, a surveyor, a cemetery worker, a plumber and a carpenter. So I went for the position of apprentice carpenter with Mears, a maintenance contractor with the council. After 3 interviews, 2 tests and a six month process, for some reason they picked me.

Three years on, I find myself writing about my experiences, carpentry, wood carving and working for the council. As I said at the beginning, I maybe be a qualified carpenter on paper, but I am not worthy of the title yet. In my opinion carpenters are some of the most skillful people there are. They build houses, boats, churches, furniture, areoplanes, wheels, toboggans etc, the list is endless. In a book I just finished reading, called 'The man who made things out of trees' by Robert Penn, it mentions the fact that carpenters were even employed in the early days of the car industry, when the car frames were made out of ash wood. In the 1960's the London Routemaster buses were still built with wooden structural bodies. There is also a company today who make wooden bike frames, a bit pricey though at £2000. In his book he was able to get over 40 different objects made from just one ash tree. From wooden wheels to a simple tent peg, made by carpenters and related trades.

One of the reasons I chose to be come a carpenter, was that by becoming one, I would never be out of work again. Let's hope that’s the case. Anyway, I hope you have enjoyed chapter one of this story and you stick with me in the weeks and months to come. So I can share with you, the stories behind my carvings, working as a carpenter for the council, and maybe even how to make things out of wood.

THE PECKHAM GARDEN

The Garden Museum recently held a writing competition, with a particular emphasis on a Memoir of a Garden. I thought I would give it a go. It was not a great surprise to find out that I wasn't a finalist, but here it is anyway. Enjoy.

My wife, four children and I lived in a tiny, two bedroomed house. We longed to move to a bigger home.  After several years of waiting, a newly refurbished council house was offered to us, in the heart of beautiful Peckham, south east London. It was placed on a busy main road, right next to a popular bus stop and had front and back gardens. Now when I say gardens, I mean two areas of mud, with the odd weed poking out here and there. Or, as I have come to realise not weeds, but rather lonely, ­­­unwanted plants growing in the wrong place!

A YOUNG GRACE WITH OUR FIRST HARVEST

It was the beginning of the year when we moved in and very colda.  As we moved the last of our furniture inside, a heavy snow storm swirled outside. This seemed great, for a day or two, as the lovely carpet of white covered up all the horrible dirty, brown earth underneath. However, as the snow began to melt, the patches of muddy earth looked even worse than before - like a soiled nappy waiting to be changed.

Gazing out of the widow during those first few weeks, it dawned on me that I had adopted a fifth child. A child I had not reckoned on and was by no means prepared for. And, my new child needed a home and a loving family. It was also going to need a great deal of love and hard work bestowed upon it. It was going to cost money and take up a lot of my time. I had to bring it up properly and make it fit and presentable for the world.

The first thing I had to decide on was whether I should start work on the front or the back garden first. The natural thing would be to start on the front first, because that was an area which people at the bus stop would see.  It was open to scrutiny. On the other hand, the back I could leave to another time and it wouldn’t matter if it was a mess, because no one would see it. But would this be a reflection of me?  Was I more interested in the outward appearance than the real me, the person that only my family saw? Well I have to admit, that the shallow me, took the lead. The front mud patch would be worked on first.

When you have a baby, especially your first, you are showered with gifts, clothes, toys and advice on how to feed and nurture the child. But when you have your very first garden, nothing like that happens really, and you have to fend for yourself.  Yes, you can read books on the subject, but you don’t see mud patches like mine in books - you just see the beautiful finished product. My patch needed clothing and it needed it fast,  I didn’t want the people to stare from the bus stop, shaking their heads at my patch, thinking to themselves “look at the lack of love and neglect in that place:  maybe it should be taken away and given to someone else to care for. To get started, I plumped for the cheapest option, with maximum effect.  I decided to lay a lawn (the flower beds would have to wait for now). But I had no tools, no spade, no rack, no watering can or hose. Like I said nobody buys presents for the father of a new garden.

I allowed myself a day to prepare the ground and a day to lay the grassy carpet tiles. Babies can have the nicest of clothing, but they need to be fed constantly or they will fail. My grass needed to be fed, it needed water and it needed lots of it, or it would dry up and not take root. However, there was a hosepipe ban, which was a big problem, as all I had was one newly purchased watering can and a bucket. For a week I was like a very strict Park-Keeper.... “Mind the grass.  Please don’t stand on it”. It was like a new carpet and the kids were desperate to walk all over it. It was so tempting, especially as it formed a short cut, avoiding the paths set out along three sides of it. They found these much too tiresome, when they could easily walk diagonally across my lovely green grass and take at least a whole second off their journey time. You know, however much you try to steer children in the right direction, they eventually choose their own path and this one went across my grass!! I call it grass and not a lawn, because to me a lawn is something you enjoy at Wimbledon, all soft and springy and exceedingly green and well trimmed. Or you might find at some fancy country house, where it is roped off, and to nice for plebs like me to walk on.

A solution to the problem was stepping stones.  I bought four (only four due to financial constraints!), but I placed them at various points, in a sort of squiggly diagonal, from gate to front door. They solved the problem perfectly. The kids loved them, especially as they had pretty sunflowers on them.  Gradually my new step child was starting to get a character of its own.

The grass now sorted, it was time to work on the flower beds. Money as usual, was the big issue.  However we managed to find a decent and varied selection of cheap shrubs and then planting got under way. As a modern parent, who takes a keen interest in their education, of course I wanted the children to get involved with their adopted sibling. But like most parents, trying to get your kids interested in the things you like, is nigh on impossible. It’s like getting your teenage son to like the same music you liked when you were his age. “It’s not cool dad; someone might see me digging outside. I might get dirty!” and “Gardens are for old people.”  Sigh!

However, I pressed on, soon my adopted child was starting to take their first steps at becoming established. I knew I was on the right course when one day I heard a gruff voice call out, from the bus stop “It’s looking good mate!”, I thought to myself “Who me? Are you talking to me? What’s looking good? Is he trying to be funny?  Am I showing my builder’s bum again?” “Yeah, the garden, it’s looking nice. Oh here’s me bus, gotta go!” I was chuffed, maybe I wasn’t such a bad parent after all.

As Easter and spring arrived, they brought back to life many bulbs, which had been planted by the previous ‘squatters, and which had been hidden from view all winter.  True to say the resurrection was here for everyone to see.  Where there seemed no life or beauty, green shoots and flowers appeared from the earth, daffodils and blue bells ringing their arrival. How quickly things had changed in only a short period time. My new child was now on solids and experiencing a growing spurt.

PRAWNEOUS INBATTERCUS

One thing I was warned about, by one or two scare mongers was “If you have a garden by a bus stop, people will throw rubbish into it”. But I have to say they were right to a degree, but thankfully the fall-out was nowhere near what they would have me to believe. I was expecting discarded furniture, broken fridges and all that sort of thing. True we did get the odd bottle of beer lobbed over, or soft drink cans but that was all. However, the strangest thing, by far, which appeared in the garden, one day, was what I believed to be a prawn ball (or to give its Latin name prawneous inbattercus) which had originated from our local Chinese takeaway.  But it didn’t lay on the ground, tucked under one of the shrubs.  Instead someone had pushed it, firmly, onto one of the branches. I have never removed it - I just left it there, and over the weeks it took on a fossil-like appearance, changing colour and form, as the days, weeks and even months went by.  And there it clung to the branch, enduring rain, wind, hail, snow and sunshine. It made me wonder what in  goes into those prawn balls?  I have to admit that I haven’t eaten one since.

One of my favourite flowers, which I did plant and which has brought no end of pleasure, was the Rose of Sharon (a type of Hibiscus syriacus). It’s a very beautiful flower – very pure and delicate.  It even has a link to biblical times, being mentioned in the book, The Song of Solomon. Whether mine is the same as the flower mentioned there, I cannot say for sure but, for arguments sake, let’s assume that it is. It held a great significance to me, as being the first flower that grew in my garden and I wanted to take pictures of it. And to quote....”Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.” All my children have been photographed, at every stage of their development, and now I realised that here I was doing the same thing but this time using a Rose as my subject. It was refreshing to discover that it even liked to be photographed, didn’t have to be told to smile or tuck their shirts in.

THE ROSE OF SHARON

But for all my small successes in the front garden, there was still the back garden, the black tulip of the family. This child was growing up a rebel, it was wild, and had to be tamed.  But what should I do? Could I grow some vegetables?  After all I was growing prawn balls in the front garden, so why not vegetables at the back? At our previous abode in our back yard I tried with the children to grow some carrots in a container. Whatever we did they never grew properly. One night so not to disappoint the children I bought some carrots with the green heads still on and stuck them into the container so the kids had something to pull up. Thankfully I never had to explain about why this variety of carrot grows so rapidly over night, from just a small green shoot one day to a perfectly formed carrot the next.

The garden area, to the rear of the house, like the front, was in a terrible state. The only thing that had sustained life was a vicious looking rose bush, with massive thorns. I realised as I began to dig the soil through that this had been a sort of dumping ground for the builders who had refurbished the house. It became like an archaeological dig, where I discovered old tiles, water taps, bits of wood, bricks, plastic soldiers, tin cans, bottles, cuddly toy and even a set of handle bars from a child’s bike, complete with a bell. I expected Tony Robinson to turn with the Time Team.  To remedy the poor state of the soil, I proceeded to scatter some fish, blood, bone and fertiliser (all purchased from the pound shop). Except for the blood that is, that was mine from trying to prune the vicious Rose bush!

But now I was ready for sowing my first crop. Like all first children, I decided to buy a baby book to record my child’s progress, the first lock of grass and that sort of thing. I recorded each set of seeds, where and when I planted them and when I should expect to see them materialise and harvest. Sure enough as the weeks and months past, edible produce began to appear. They weren’t the biggest, best or nicest looking vegetable you had ever seen, but they were vegetable nonetheless. Many did fall by the wayside, victims of a nasty slimy creature called the slug. Not just one slug but a whole army of them. Where did they come from? How did they get here? Could they fly? Were they related to the vampire family, only coming out at night to prey on their victims?

MONTY DON BEWARE

I can remember purchasing a box of baby lettuces all ready to plant out. But, within a couple of days they were completely gone; literally eaten alive. One can only imagine the fear that gripped these baby lettuce, as a slow moving slimy army slithered towards them and then sucked the life out of them.

One vegetable which sticks out as a success story, but for all the wrong reasons is the humble runner bean. It was recommended to me as being easy to grow, with a high yield. What I didn’t consider though, was that I actually don’t like runner beans.  And nor does my wife (who likes more vegetables then anyone I know). As for the kids liking them that was none starter. Maybe if I grew my own runner beans, I might start to like them; they would taste nicer. The kids might even start to like them, if I coated them in chocolate and pass them off as Chocolate Brazils. Or another trick would be to cut them up so small that they became unrecognisable in a stew.  The yield was so high in fact I didn’t know what to do with them all. There was only so many I could freeze. You can’t even give them away as we found out. One neighbour took some, probably out of politeness. But when I said “if you want some more just knock” they never came back.

I did come up with a brilliant plan to rid us of all these unwanted runner beans. After watching an episode of River Cottage, I tied the beans up in small bunches, accompanied with a some herbs we were also growing and a rustic labelling which said “Free runner beans, grown in Peckham”. I felt smugly optimistic.  Then I neatly placed the green parcels, on the garden fence, next to bus stop, and waited and waited and waited, until it got embarrassing.  Not one person from the diverse community of Peckham would partake. After several hours, I sheepishly retrieved the unwanted beanies, which now looked decidedly shrivelled and sad. I bet Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall doesn’t have this problem, I pondered.  In a desperate attempt, I placed them at the entrance to the local park. Thankfully, they were all gone the next day, but where to, I cannot say. Maybe Mrs Fox is trying force feed her cubs with them.

It has been four years now since my adopted child entered my life and, like bringing up any child, there have been highs and lows. At times, I have shown neglect and it’s all been too much and you feel like a rubbish parent. But, on the whole, it has been a privilege and an honour. What a wonder to experience the miracle of life.  How you can have a bulb or seed, and to all intents and purposes, it seems dead and lifeless and yet, when you put it into the ground, cover it with earth and rotted dead stuff (aka compost) in a short time it comes back to life and turns into a beautiful flower or something you can eat (runner beans being the exception to the rule, of course!). Then the following year you start the whole process all over again. I am reminded of a verse from the New Testament, the Apostle Paul wrote “I have planted, Apollos watered; but God gave the increase.

A CHAIR CALLED SERENDIPITY

Serendipity means a "happy accident" or "pleasant surprise"; specifically, the accident of finding something good or useful while not specifically searching for it. So it was almost a year ago now my wife and I were browsing through a second hand shop, come junk yard. It was in a small town called Bridport, West Dorset. There resting against a wall outside were a pair of rustic cast iron bench ends. We understand they had come from the platform of a country railway station, at least that’s how they were sold to us.



My wife saw the potential in these heavy rusty looking bits of metal. Here first words to me were “you could make a chair with those and carve something on it”. I have to admit I wasn’t convinced, and it seemed like a lot of hard work for me. We agreed if they were cheap enough we would make the purchase. The shop owner was happy to take £10 for the pair. We thought this pretty good value and after handing over the money we placed them in the boot of the car for the journey home.

The bench ends have been sitting in my garden ever since, subject to wind, rain, snow and the occasional ray of sunshine. To be fair to Judith she hasn’t nagged me too much, to do something with them. But this week, with the sun coming through on Bank Holiday Monday, I decided I should bite the bullet and get on with the job in question.

THE WOOD IS TREATED WITH TEAK OIL, TO PROTECT IT FROM THE OUTSIDE ELEMENTS

The first thing we had to decide was “should or should we not paint the bench ends”. We toyed with the idea of purple for a while or some other bright colour. But in the end not wanting to spend any more money we decided just to clean the metal and leave it as it was.

We decided on the word Serendipity for the carving, because we came across it recently and we liked the sound of it. The word Serendipity has been voted one of the ten English words hardest to translate. But it was a nice word to carve and here is how it came together. The wood I used is called sapele, it is a large tree native to tropical Africa.

THE COMPLETED CARVING BEFORE FINISHING

ALL FINISHED

THE BIG PLANT - 23 APRIL 2013

SKULLS - GARDEN MUSEUM PAPER CUT

SKULL ON GRAVE IN THE WILD LIFE GARDEN

The skull is one of man's oldest and most powerful symbols. It has a long and varied history, but most commonly it is seen as a representation of death and mortality.

The Nazi SS incorporated the skull into the uniforms of their concentration camp guards in a symbol that probably still invokes fear today.  In the same way the skull and crossbones symbol was placed on bottles of poison as a visual reminder of danger.  And of course it was once flown as the flag of pirates, and was probably as unwelcome a sight as any on the high seas.

SKULL ON TRADESCANT FAMILY TOMB

Today it is commonly used in horror films, horror books, and haunted houses to create an environment or feeling of fear and trepidation.

I have discovered a couple of skulls in the Garden Museum, one on the tomb of the Tradescant family in the Knot garden and another on a grave in the Wild Life Garden outside. These along with a recent Paper Cutting workshop at the Sir John Soane Museum, by Jessica Palmer - artist and illustrator, has inspired me to produce this paper cut of a skull.

MY FIRST SKETCH AND REVERSE OF PAPER CUT

FRONT VIEW OF PAPER CUT

SHINE A TORCH ON THE THE PAPER CUT, THEN TAKE A PICTURE OF THE SHADOW
AND GET THIS WEIRD EFFECT

THE IMAGE LAID OVER SOME OLD PAPER IN PHOTOSHOP

SOME USEFUL LINKS
www.jessicapalmerart.biz
http://www.flickr.com/photos/jessicapalmer18/sets/72157633103844264/
www.gardenmuseum.org.uk/
www.soane.org/www.obsessedwithskulls.com