…You must discard the word Fancy altogether. You have nothing to do with it. You are not to have, in any object of use or ornament, what would be a contradiction in fact. You don’t walk upon flowers in fact; you cannot be allowed to walk upon flowers in carpets. You don’t find that foreign birds and butterflies come and perch upon your crockery; you cannot be permitted to paint foreign birds and butterflies upon your crockery. You never meet with quadrupeds going up and down walls; you must not have quadrupeds represented upon walls. ‘You must use,’ said the gentleman, ‘for all these purposes, combinations and modifications (in primary colours) of mathematical figures which are susceptible of proof and demonstration. This is the new discovery. This is fact. This is taste.’
— Thomas Gradgrind in “Hard Times,” Charles Dickens, 1854
I’m no tenant farmer. I didn’t grow up in a feudal system where my family had to forfeit a large part of our harvest to a petty lord or local bishop. In fact, I have never farmed a single day in my damn life.
So the title of this book, “The American Peasant,” might seem a puzzle (at the least) or even a feat of legerdemain (yes, I own – and know how to use – a thesaurus).
Of course, there are many ways to decipher the word “peasant.” First, let me say that I don’t consider the term derogatory. In fact, the primary goal of this book is to shine a light on gorgeous peasant furniture forms that get little attention in the West. And perhaps shift (slightly) the West’s understanding of what a peasant was (or is).
I would be happy for you to interpret the title as: “Hello America, I’d like you to meet some peasants.”
It’s an introduction that is overdue.
I have spent my life studying furniture and amassing a library of books about woodworking (insert sparkling resume here). And yet, until Peter Follansbee introduced me to the work of Hungarian woodworker Gyenes Tamás in 2015, I’d never seen anything like these peasant pieces. And I mean that sentence literally. These pieces were completely foreign in form, construction, finish and embellishment.
To fill that void, I first translated (roughly) Tamás’ book, “Ácsolt ládák Titkai” for myself. And I found my way into the ethnographic studies of so-called “peasant art” in Northern, Eastern and Central Europe.
I started building their furniture pieces as best I could. I developed engraving tools (by MacGyver-ing aluminum craft knives and cheap vinyl flooring cutters) to create the beautiful engravings. I buckled down and learned to use straight-up linseed oil paint, which is an amazing joy.
And (this is big), I embraced embellishment.
For my entire furniture-making career, I have been only mildly interested in carving, marquetry, parquetry, stringing and inlay. Instead, I have always focused on form, grain and form. Plus grain. And form.
Suddenly I wanted to engrave the shape of a farmer in prayer on every door. Or add plowed fields to my joined chests. Or mountains that were protected by unseen forces. I had ingested someone’s cabbage-flavored Kool-Aid.
Traditional European peasant culture has virtually disappeared, except in old books and far-flung museums. And it’s difficult for a modern Westerner to even conceive just how different the society and material culture was in Eastern and Central Europe. Peasants are almost a trope in the West, thanks in no small part to “Monty Python and the Holy Grail.” Impossibly poor, dirty and hopeless people. (“Dennis, there’s some lovely filth down here.”)
But when you see the early photos of peasant homes, clothes and decorative objects, it’s simply humbling. These rural societies were complex, skilled, fastidious and proud. Peasant homes, churches and granaries are wonders of construction, human-scale, made from good materials and (when you see the interiors) a place you would love to spend a long evening.
Everyday objects, from the shepherd’s crook to the grain scoop, were embellished. Not with gold or rubies. But with the skill of the axe and the knife.
These were entire societies that were built on wood. And yet, most woodworkers outside those isolated countries have no clue that these wondrous places and objects even existed.
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