The Perfect Taper

I'm tired.

Ten-hour days in the shop are already long and arduous, and the ever-steepening learning curve compounds my exhaustion, so in between eating, sleeping, and working, I barely have time to think. The name of the game right now in my Baltimore Blacksmith Vacation is forging a perfect taper. If you've paid attention at all to the ubiquitous Spanish revival metal-work in Santa Barbara, you've probably seen (and yawned at) the frilly, scrolly, and spiral-ly gates. Pay closer attention. Notice how your eye intuitively follows—even WANTS to follow—the interior curve of the lines. As your eye travels ever closer to the center of the spiral, the width of the bar likely tapers gradually, terminating in an elegant, thin, and subtle curve. If you were to unfold this spiral in to a long, straight bar, it would, in a perfect blacksmithing world, taper incrementally. Sadly, much of Santa Barbara's scrollwork vaunts the spirals without the elegant taper. Chris believes that a blacksmith should be able to form the most perfect of tapers before ANY other work is done.

Forging an elegant taper is a right of passage, a removing of training wheels, a graduation from "hack" to artist-blacksmith.

I'm getting there.

The last few days have been long, but Chris and I are finding our groove together. Hard, physical labor, coupled with keen intellectual attention, is a beautiful thing to behold. I can't imagine a better line of work. I'm also settling in to a rhythm of working, returning home through the funky, old, and evocative neighborhoods of west-Baltimore, cooking dinner with Chris and Rowena, and falling asleep to cicadas and crickets. The humidity is suffocating, as is the greenery of Maryland, but not in a negative way necessarily. It reminds me of long summer nights as a kid, yard-hopping at dusk, throwing water balloons at my sister, and dreading the end of vacation and beginning of school. Nostalgic, I know. I should also point out that I haven't worn a shirt ONCE while at home; it's expected that you do not wear an upper-body garment upon entrance to Chris' home. He does not have AC in his house, so this rule makes sense.



This is a bending template for the sconces we are making. Notice how a metal wedge secures the piece in place so we can bend the "arms" around the template.



Baltimore has so many old, run-down, but hinting-at-revival buildings. This is a cool industrial complex by the shop that some rich dude has bought and planned on renovating.


I should say something about the heat in Chris' shop: it's been high 90's every day, and extremely humid. And that's outside. The shop, with several 2300 Degree forges going, can exceed 120 degrees. I had a FULL gallon of water today before noon, and I still felt wickedly thirsty. My clothes are so wet at the end of the day it looks like I jumped in a pool.


Pepper isn't looking too good these days. He's been vomitting in the mornings. Poor guy.


These beautiful tapers by Chris are based on the Fibonacci sequence.


Whaddya think, should I get new ear-plugs?


These little guys may not look like much, but they kicked my butt. When you see what they eventually look like, you'll understand what I mean.

The Five P's: Proper Planning Prevents Piss Poor Performance

Tonight, Chris is going to see Sammy Hagar, the bassist from Van Halen, and Joe Satriani play in some super-band called Chickenfoot. I, alas, am not going. If I was playing my musical loyalties right, I would have A) known that such demigods of the Eighties were playing in Baltimore, and B) bought tickets in advance. What a dark, dark streak on my track record as a human being.

On the forging end of things, I am attaining some kind of profiency with the powerhammer. Chris was able to hand off certain forging tasks to me without his supervision, and there were a few moments (just a few, mind you) where our work flow melded into a beautiful counterpoint of hammering, heating, and quenching (that's what we call sticking hot stuff in water). The mind-rattling focus of operating a machine that evokes primal fear in the pit of your soul, and the almost-unbearable heat of the shop, however, was exhausting. Chris works very, very hard. He is, after all, Scottish, and we all know that the Scots are predisposed to endure insane amounts of duress.

I also started hand-hammering camp. Chris takes great pride in the clean, hand-hammered aesthetic of his work, and he demanded more of my arm and eye than anyone—or any job—ever has. While we ate sandwhiches during a break, Chris simply looked at me, smiled, then said "so, we're going to see how good you are with a hammer". Thus ensued a few hours of finding that good work is less about forcing, manhandling, or pounding a work into submission, and more about articulating the vision of your goal to yourself, then, deliberately, to your limbs. It is a true interweaving of mind and body. Learning to "see" the finished product before the product is finished is the true test of skill.

I rode Chris' bicycle to work today through the day's first suggestions of humidity, and tried to ignore the fact that it might rain that afternoon and put a dampener on my ride home. It did rain—hard. Lightning struck literally as we operated the powerhammers. Sammy Hagar, I'm sure, would be proud. I arrived home late, completely soaked, and phenomenally starving. I inhaled the requisite Stella Artois, Kettle Chips, and water, then eased into a more dignified gastronomic lope with dinner: a wonderful Indian Curried chicken over rice.

I'm currently contemplating watching the Sci Fi channel (hoping to find something with zombies), then going to bed.



Chris, happy about reliving his youth with Sammy Hagar.


Lunch: Vegetable Soup a la Baltimore (lots of locally grown ingredients in this one).






Crankin' on the Stryker 88. Compared to the Stryker 165, this hammer is relatively easy to use.



Finishing up a day at the shop. Then, a ride through rain-soaked and hipster-heavy Hampden.

Trial By Hammer: Day 1

The front door of Mandala Creations, my bastion of forging for the next two weeks.


Today's introductions went something like this:

Andy, meet Power-hammer Stryker 165.

Power-hammer Stryker 165, meet Andy.

The pleasure of acquaintance was all mine. Up till now, I've only used a 50lb Little Giant Hammer, a hardy device fashioned in the 30's, but still forging true. However, using a modern powerhammer opened my eyes to the glossy world of piston-driven hammers. Chris owns two Power-hammers: an 88 and 165 (the numbers refer to the weight of the sledge. The machines are actually thousands of pounds), and I became intimately familiar with the quirks of these wonderfully mechanized crushers. The heavy 165 hammer is a paradox of material, function, and operation: it stands seven or eight feet tall, weighs an ungodly amount, FLATTENS huge chunks of metal, yet it can deliver light, feathered blows with finesse. It's almost as if the operator must be as subtle as the machine is powerful. Here's some lessons from our day of forging railing pickets:

1) Consistency. Keep blows evenly spaced, and with consistent power. Also, pull the hot metal under the sledge at an even rate, like a machine.

2) Relax. Don't fight the hammer. Gripping the tongs on the metal overly tight causes you to misread the metal's registry on the hammer.

3) Don't manhandle the hammer peddle. The difference between ponderous, heavy blows and light chamfering blows is infinitesimal. I've never felt so intimately connected to a machine. It's kind of... shall we say, mech-erotic? Sorry, that was weird.

4) DRINK TONS OF WATER. The temperature outside today was in the mid-90's, with gobs of humidity, and the shop was a good 15 degrees hotter at times with the forge going. I gulped down a gallon of water, but I still feel like didn't have an ounce of liquid in me. My piss wasn't just yellow; it was dark orange. Tomorrow, I'm bringing salt packets to keep my water down.

For dinner, I had a Stella Artois and a spectacular salad with goat cheese, brussel sprouts (I introduced Chris and Rowena to roasted sprouts), and myriad other delectable chunkies. Now, to bed. Tomorrow I meet the hammer again.



Thar she is, the 165.


Chamfering the edge of the railing pickets.



Chris is very, very talented with the power-hammer. It's a beautiful thing to watch.



Some forged pickets, before final finishing and polishing.



A decidedly sweaty me.

Everyone asks me if I've seen "The Wire"

After arriving in Baltimore, meeting Chris, Rowena (Chris’ girlfriend), and Pepper (his cat), I decided that I liked it here. Chris and I had a late lunch of guacamole slathered on garden-burgers. Afterwards, we braved downtown Baltimore, sidestepped a mugger getting pummeled by an undercover policeman, swaggered into the Belvedere, a prohibition-era speakeasy turned swanky bar, and ended the evening at The Brewer’s Art, a micro-brewery known for its face-slapping ales. At Chris’ behest, I had the oh-so-choice Resurrection Ale, a 7% masterpiece of light caramel and leathery musk. I have yet to sample their other drinkables. The current goal is to locate an “Eighty Shilling” beer, a Scottish invention that Chris loves.

Baltimore is in battle with itself, flexing it’s restorative muscles in some districts, and succumbing to squalor and crime in others. The transition zones are a surreal mix of stately brick, gothic industrial, and memories of past grandeur. Nowadays, hipster architects and designers are transforming old industrial buildings into expensive lofts and workspaces in a compelling mixture of archaic steel infrastructure, soot-stained brick, and clean, polished lines of glass and concrete. But again, it’s an uphill battle. In Baltimore, I get the sense that locals like it, but are still a little hesitant (embarrassed?) to tout their city to the world. As a result, folks seem humbly loyal to their town. I like that.

In contrast to downtown Baltimore, which is a mere five or six mile away, Chris’ neighborhood is the paragon of lush, turn-of-the-century New England suburbs. Old renovated colonials, brick cottages, and beautiful craftsman homes blend into the omnipresent crush of August greenery. Roads twist, connect, and end at odd times and angles, suggesting a distant past of city planning, and re-planning. You might say his neighborhood has character. His yard and surrounding property overflow with blackberries, tomatoes, kale, squash, basil, and countless other types of produce. We will be eating well these two weeks.

I’m stoked to start work. Chris has a precise and articulate vision of his role as an artist-blacksmith, and I can’t wait to see how that role manifests itself in his work.

Complicated scroll-work with copper backing.


Chris employs very clean joinery in his work.


The deck. I read here, eat here, and relax here. Evenings are best.


This is Pepper the cat.

Things I Will Think About Doing Whilst Sitting In An Airport But Never Actually Do:

—Make a coffee-table book of airport carpet patterns.
—Drink a cup of glitter.

We're moving?

Mary just got a job in Guadalupe, which is North County (that's everything NORTH of Gaviota, for all you not-in-the-know folks). Besides providing a steady income, great work environment, and the knowledge that she obtained a job in the shittiest economy on record for California, this job requires Mary to commute 1.5 hours from Carpinteria to Guadalupe. Decidedly awful. We are, therefore, contemplating a move to The Valley.

Perhaps I'm romanticizing things a bit, but the Santa Ynez Valley is one of my favorite locales in California. There's endless rolling hills, covered in lustrous grapes, grass, and gnarled oak trees, and the pace of life is kicked down a notch from kinetic Santa Barbara. In the current summer heat, the air feels heavy with dry grass aromas, herbs, and eucalyptus. In the pictures, there's a fire near New Cuyama, so that's why all sun has that el fin del mundo look. Last Wednesday, we barbecued at Justin's house in Los Alamos—perhaps the most parochial of the Valley towns—and proved to the world that radicchio-bacon salad, medium-rare tri tip, rosemary encrusted potatoes, and garlic bread are good to eat.

Seriously.

And they're even better with a Dierburg 06' Chard, Tyler 06' Pinot, and a bitchin' Sancerre.

Baltimore Blacksmithing Vacation

I'm back.

Of course, I never left, but I have a litany of excuses for not posting, such as becoming an uncle, driving my fiancee back from Indiana, and running my business. Good, consuming stuff.

I'm heading to Baltimore in a few weeks to work with Chris Gavin, a highly accomplished Artist-Blacksmith whose work I admire. I'm apprenticing under his tutelage for a solid two weeks, and hopefully I'll garner some ability, ideas, and enthusiasm for my peculiarly niche profession. I'll be climbing at Baltimore-area climbing gyms (some of which are stinking amazing), and running a shit-ton, so hopefully I'll be in spitting-distance of my new goal: THE BUENA VISTA PROJECT (see earlier post). Mark Seelos and I did some in-depth scouting the other day, and it looked definitively possible to link sections together, even the more improbable cruxes. I've been bouldering quite a bit, so my fingies are feeling tough, even though my endurance probably isn't that great. The BVP is that long, however, so I'm going to favor power over endurance.

The line is so, so inspiring. At least to me.