Furniture for Rustics

Richard II. Image from the National Portrait Gallery.

“You wretches detestable on land and sea: you who seek equality with lords are unworthy to live. Give this message to your colleagues: Rustics you were, and rustics you are still; you will remain in bondage, not as before, but incomparably harsher. For as long as we live we will strive to suppress you, and your misery will be an example in the eyes of posterity. However, we will spare your lives if you remain faithful and loyal. Choose now which course you want to follow.”

— Richard II’s speech to the peasants at Waltham, Essex (June 22, 1381), according to Thomas Walsingham, quoted in Nigel Saul, “Richard II” (Yale University Press, 1999), p. 74.

I choose rustic.

I remember the moment I chose it. I was staying in the barracks at Port Townsend, Washington, while teaching my first class there in 2013 on building the Anarchist’s Tool Chest. I don’t know if the barracks are still like this, but the 2013 accommodations were one squishy-carpeted step above camping.

I got a worn-out cot, a window and a table. Plus communal toilets and showers.

I’ve never minded this sort of low-rent shit. Compared to sleeping at our Arkansas farm (no toilet and a solar shower), it was luxury.

At that time, “The Anarchist’s Tool Chest” book was finding an audience, and (for the first time in my life) it was easy to find work at both teaching and writing. Thank goodness, because I had quit my corporate job, and Lucy and I had kids. They were 17, 12 and expensive.

After class each day, I went out for dinner with the students then retired to the barracks to work on my next book, which was about furniture design. But it was not the kind of design book that normal people publish. My goal was to examine vernacular furniture design and probe the dimensions, joinery and forms that were constants throughout the last 400 years or so.

I had spreadsheets with thousands of individual examples of pieces keyed into them. It was all a jumble of numbers.

Then Peter Follansbee sent me a photo of a six-board chest to add to my collection. It made me shake my head like I had been asleep for 42 years.

Port Townsend in 2013, right before my conversion.

The sun was setting that night outside the window in the barracks. I looked at the photo of that chest. How old was it? I couldn’t say. That was that moment I could see the path forward for the rest of my days. I understood the two hemispheres of furniture.

1. The wealthy stuff, which varies wildly like fashion. Every XX years, new colors come into vogue. Ornamentation rises and falls. Woods – light and dark – become the rage. This is the current domain of the interior designer, who helps rich people look like they know how to spend their money.

2. The vernacular, rustic stuff, which varies little. This is the stuff you build for yourself if you don’t have access to fancy tools, materials or training. A six-board chest is the natural result of people + trees + a need to put blankets somewhere.

If you have read my shit for more than two weeks you know what I’m going to say next. Here we go: I love the vernacular stuff because it’s governed by local materials, simple tools and ornamentation that is necessary only to keep evil at bay. Maybe a hexafoil carved on the front to keep evil spirits from messing with your wife’s underwear. Or something to repel the ever-chewing goats, perhaps.

These pieces are unconnected to high fashion, so they look the same whether they’re 20 years old or 400.

Literally anyone with a slim amount of cleverness can build this furniture. I’ve taught no-nothings to make a six-board chest that will last them the rest of their lives.

Since closing my commission book in 2019, I’ve tried to ensure the stuff I make can be purchased by fellow rustics – firefighters, junior accountants and administrative assistants.

A real rustic knows the math. A good pair of boots costs twice as much as a cheap pair of boots. And good boots last 10 times as long.

You don’t throw out your six-board chest because yellow is out of fashion. You simply paint it in the new blue (or wait until yellow makes a comeback). When your rich neighbor Glenn gets a fancy El Camino with whitewalls and pinstriping, you retaliate by pinstriping your dining chairs and whitewashing the wainscot in your house.

If Glenn gets a step to his front door, you build a step to yours. He buys a clock radio, you construct a sundial.

He commissions a Chippendale chair, you build a stick chair.

“For as long as we live, we will strive to suppress you, and your misery will be an example in the eyes of posterity.”

Dude. That’s OK because in my misery this chair sits just fine. The fire is warm. I’ll take care of myself, my family and my neighbors. Y’all can poop up your own butt, for all I care.

“However, we will spare your lives if you remain faithful and loyal. Choose now which course you want to follow.”