Frustration, followed by success, followed by more frustration.

Climbing my stress away.


While Dan and I are excited to move our shop, we are currently embroiled in a frustrating setback. The City of Santa Barbara, flexing its bullying, bureaucratic muscles, has demanded to re-review the permitting process for the property. What does this mean? Delay. You can bet The City of SB has some mid-level hack slowly meandering through a mire of red-tape and interminable paperwork, and you can also bet that none of our questions will be answered without an absurd domnino-effect of "let me ask my superiors..." This is an outrage. The good news is the landlady loves us, and can't wait to rent the space to our business. We just have to sit on our hands till the permitting nonsense subsides. I feel like spilling hot coffee on the collective crotches of those working at City Planning.



Speaking of debacles, I recently accomplished a bouldering problem (which I'm calling "The Seven Year Debacle") at the Westmont College boulder. It starts at the lower right-hand side of the above-picture arete and consists of a stupid-hard throw to a three-finger pocket at the upper left-hand side of the rock (Keith, if you're reading this, you may remember the hold). I don't usually blame the difficulty of problems on a climber's reach, but the sequence demanded a highly idiosyncratic jumble of technique that has evaded me since my college days. To be sure, I haven't obsessed over this problem in a constanst fashion (I don't climb at Westmont very often), but whenever I happened by my alma mater over the last seven years, shoes and chalk in hand, this little line humbled me. When I finally did the moves, they felt only moderately hard, not seven-year-project hard (hence the name "The Seven Year Debacle").

I've also climbed a few other outstanding projects on the Westmont Boulder, some of them quite hard, all of them brilliant. With the help of local climber/surfer/skater/free-spirit Rusty Jaeger, and a few other enthused folk, we plan to continue this little renaissance of climbing joie de vivre--provided that Westmont Public Safety doesn't kick us off the campus.


In the meantime, work continues to occupy my time in a favorable manner. Here is a little blow-by-blow from yesterday's session in the shop:

Dan grinds the finish on an entry-way table. The look of the piece is an interesting cross between industrial and neo-classical.


SB Forge and Iron has a few signature styles, and one of my favorite is the turn-of-the-century industrial aesthetic. Here are some "boiler doors" that showcase the particularly clean lines, functional elegance, and raw strength of the machinery of yesterear. Machinery from the 1900's has a strange--even sexy--appeal to me. Yeah, I said that...


I built a metal jamb for the doors.


In order the assemble the hardware for the piece, which will be friggin' awesome (more later on the hardware), I wanted to retain the cool anachronistic look of rivets stitching together the steel belly of a monolithic sea cruiser from 1890--on a smaller scale, of course. Luckily, I had threaded some actual rivets on a different project a few years ago, and I had extras. Imgagine my joy! Threaded rivets!


Machining the hardware for the doors. I will post photos of the finished assembly.

Welcome back, me

Nothing happens after six in Santa Ynez. Shops close their doors. Families retreat to sundry domestic activities like barbecuing, bocce ball, and walking their dogs. Chickens, cows, and feral cats hold court in a constant soundtrack befitting their various calls. Cows and cats don't bother me. Chickens (and roosters), on the other hand, are death for sleeping with the window open; by 4:30 a.m. they are roused, rowdy, and cackling away. Perhaps I'm more of a city-boy than I thought.

Mary and I have about four months of marriage under our belt, and about twice that amount living in the Santa Ynez Valley. Commuting continues for each of us: I to the South, she to the North. Her job continues to be exceptionally tough, and I'm amazed at her resilience. She works harder than anyone I know, and all I can do is cook dinner for her, administer back-rubs, and pick out cheesy movies to make her laugh.

As for my job? Let me begin with this:

It is time for Dan and I to take our rightful place among the hallowed passages of the Funk Zone, Santa Barbara's bastion of corrugated metal, questionable zoning, and industrial goings-on. Basically, a working artist's utopia. After a maelstrom year of huge art installations (see older posts regarding the City Bronze project), child-rearing (not mine, Dan's), and my marriage, Dan and I decided it was time to move in to a larger, more visible shop-space. Sure, we loved the fact that we could ride dirt-bikes at our old location. The weekly bobcat sightings were also nice. I don't even need to mention the boon of avocado trees at your shop door. But bucolic setting notwithstanding, the space was exposed to the elements, small, dubiously legal, and precariously situated in a box canyon (read: forging=possible wildfire=screwed).

So say hello to 118 Gray St.

It's just around the corner from some hipster wineries and furniture stores, and distractingly juxtaposed to the ocean. I like to tell Dan that it's a stone throw from the ultimate in commercial visibility (State Street), but far enough away to do what you want and not be hassled--not that we EVER do anything reprehensible. Still I like the idea that I can build a catapult, trebuchet, or ballista and not field probing questions. Of course, the main thrust of this new shop is to up the production ability of Santa Barbara Forge and Iron. We are so, so pumped. Moving will occur all this week, and into the next. Call me if you want to help.

Farewell, old shop. Your pastoral vibe will abide in memory.


Here are some recreationally-themed photos.


Little Egypt is a spectacular alpine cragging area outside Bishop.



I love the Brickyard, our local bouldering stronghold



Crimps on a classic.



Mary balances her way up Smooth Criminal.

A whole lotta BRONZE

Finally, after months of sundry forms of parlay, negotiation, emails, phone calls, and more emails, Dan and I started work on the West Beach art installation. Fabrication began at the end of August, right after my apprenticeship in Baltimore, and ever since I've been immersed in all things bronze. The peculiarities of this metal both compel the eye and challenge the brain. When cold, bronze is easy. When forging, however, bronze has a narrow range of "workable" temperatures, and if you get it too hot, it literally burns up. Luckily, we haven't done much forging—just lots of cold-bending on the Hossfeld.

At the end of the day, I smell like bronze. I kind of like it.

Here's some images of the "swimmers" near Los Banos pool. Note the picture of the plan-sheet: the dude looks fairly Soviet in demeanor. Probably just intimations of Communism from the designer. Artists are all Commies, anyway.

A whole lotta pictures:

This blog entry may be entering the realm of esoterica (wait, I'm a blacksmith...), but I'm posting a lot of pictures that detail tools, certain processes, machinery, and shop-layout. If this kind of stuff isn't interesting to you, then I'm sorry, but I think everything that I'm doing in regards to blacksmithing rocks. Tools are a big part of what I do. Therefore, tools rock. Especially big tools. Still, as far as I get away from traditional hand hammering, it all comes back to one's ability to see lines, understand light and shadow, and make machines do what your mind and eye desires. Ultimately, machines do nothing unless you direct them. I like that—it puts volition in to the mix. Enjoy!

The Treadle hammer. Awesome for precision hot-cutting, punching, or for when you need a very accurate and controlled application of hammering force. Basically, a very strong third arm. I'm building one ASAP.


The foot pedal.


The strike plate, a 1" piece of mild steel. I suppose you could use Aluminum as well.


Samuel Yellin original drawing. I revere this man. He was a master, and his empire of metal is worth looking in to.


His initials.


The spring-swage rack. Amazing amount of dies here.


Close up of the 7/8" spring-swage. This goes under the powerhammer.


Close-up of the 7/8" spring-swage.


Here I am, powerhammering the pipe from 1" to 7/8".


How does one powerhammer pipe without it collapsing, you ask? Fill the pipe with sand, weld the ends shut, forge to desired shape, then cut off the ends and dump out the sand.


Here's the beginning stages of me forging an escutcheon (the little decorative thingy that connects a chandelier or lighting fixture to the cieling). I start by laying out a piece of 1/4" metal on a big swage block, over the 3" bowl depression.


Apply heat with a torch.


Start hammering with crowned end of planishing hammer. Start in middle of bowl and work out from there in concentric circles The learning curve gets steepens from here. You have to be able to see, as Chris says, "line and shadow".


More hammering and sighting.


Here's the product, semi-finished. I still have to hot-cut the outline around the bowl and all that good stuff.



A hot-cutting chisel under the Treadle Hammer.


A number of cool dies for the hydraulic press. We use these to decorate, texture, or otherwise shape the things like drawer-pulls or bolt-heads.









The local climbing gym. I climbed here a few times, but I barely had any energy to pull on holds.


I'm going to miss Baltimore alleyways.


Here's some shots of a chandelier we made. Fitting the metal arms to the alabaster bowl was extremely hard and time-consuming.

The trappings of a good Baltimore evening in late August:

The mossies in Baltimore are small but voracious, so if you're going to play guitar on the porch at dusk, you must have a Citronella candle, bug spray, and Chianti—the latter is for drinking. Tonight, I was in need of relaxation. Even though Chris and I make ample use of mechanical advantage in our trade—powerhammers, hydraulic presses, the Hossfeld bender—every once and a while we have to resort to our brawn, especially in the case of punching and drifting holes in hot metal. Chris swung the hammer for yesterday's punch session, but today was my turn, so I cranked up the forge, stretched my shoulder, and commenced pounding.

To be sure, punching and drifting requires a lot of force, but the process is equally demanding in regards to focus and intelligence. I've said it before and I'll say it again: Blacksmithing combines the best of your body and your mind, and demands that they work together in harmony. Once you attain proficiency with the hand-hammer, accomplishing mundane hammering tasks can seem perfunctory and hack. Step back a minute: reflect on the beauty of mind directing matter; of intention guiding every minutiae of work. When my hammer swings, I witness the human spirit affecting material form, a ruddy, everyday kind of incarnation. Mysterious stuff, the material world—especially when it intersects so palpably with the world of ideas.


Before work, I don't wear clothes.


Chris and Rich deliberating over their next move.


Filing a chamfer on the support shafts for the sconces. When using files on metal, don't go back-and-forth as you would with a wood file. Treat the file as a "plane" and perform long, longitudinal strokes.


Ever wonder how to quickly remove scale from mild steel? Take your torch, fire up an overly oxygenated flame, and flash-heat the cooled metal. The scale will simply flake off. I wish I knew this three years ago.


Here's three unfinished pieces. You can clearly see the holes I hand-punched and drifted. It might not look like much now, but it's quite a process...

Work, followed by Fell's Point

Once again, Baltmore surprises me with its sense of awkward self-awareness, and, without waxing too fond, its charming smallness. Chris and I met up last night with Eric, one of Chris' former work-buddies (employee is too formal a word to describe their relationship), and we went to catch a beer at Max's On Broadway, a once-revered music venue on Fell's Point, but now just a bar that vaunts over eighty beers on tap (I had Resurrection Alse once again, as well as very, mysterious, very dark Belgian Ale. Both were good). As we walked towards Max's along the refurbished colonial buildings of Fell's Point, Eric described the small-town feel of Baltimore, how if you walk around long enough, you'll see people you know. Sure enough, the second we stepped in to the bar, Eric ran in to a girl he's known since elementary school. I know, I know: this coincidence doesn't suggest alignment in the celestial bodies or anything, but it was cool to witness. I also found out that night that Samuel Yellin, one of America's most famous iron-workers from the last century, did a lot of work in Baltimore. I also found out that Chris has some Samuel Yellin original drawings at his house. How cool.

Yesterday at work I spent a good chunk of time form fitting sconce arms to the alabaster bowls. The bowls will be "carried" by these arms, and since they will be seen from the front and side, the connection between the arms and the bowl must be absolutely seamless. Forged metal doesn't necessarily set you up for seamless, incremental work like this, but with the aid of the Hossfeld Bender—a leverage tool with a bending arm, not an Astro-Physics term like it sounds—I was able to form-fit the arms quite well to the bowls.

I also spent a while working with the 88, forging the bottom of the sconce racks. These little guys are pretty difficult to forge, and require a good eye, steady hammer pulse, and super-solid alignment of the metal. Another thing: in order to better see the true-ness of the hammer die, I have to be super diligent with scraping scale off of the metal the second I take it out of the forge. I'm making this a habit.

My favorite Baltimore Coffee shop. Its sufficiently socially-conscious name is Common Ground. They have good coffee regardless.


The Hossfeld bender. I love, love, love this thing. Dan and I have one, so I was fairly familiar with its use before coming to Baltimore.


The alabaster bowl sconces, and the metal arms that correspond to them.


Notice how seamless the joining of the bowl and metal must be. It's harder than it might seem to accomplish this.