GONE FISHING AND THE GENTLE ART OF FAKING.

Tottie here, your roving Western Isles Wanderer, reporting again from New Tolsta.

It was only when I got back to Stornoway that I realised I hadn’t got Tom’s mobile phone number. Not a problem I’ll simply phoned An Lanntair, however having left a note about those wonderful fish I realised I’d forgotten to leave my phone number, so I wasn’t going to be hearing from him unless I made the first move. I decided to stay with the written form and send him a text. Having done that I then wondered if he knew how to use text messaging since he professes to be such a novice with his mobile, preferring to call it his flat camera. I needn’t have worried, the reply came back later that same day. I’d been more specific in my reply asking a price for the larger group of four fish. They were £45, and so I messaged him immediately to say I’d be round the following day if that was OK. My prearranged visit found Tom in his workshop hacking away at a piece of wood. I think Tom must work on the principal that out of chaos comes beauty, because whatever he was up to in there only he would have known. There was scraps of old floor boards and stuff that looked as if it might as well be chopped up for kindling, but Tom assured me that everything can be used and that the fish I’d bought were a fine example. Made entirely from scrap wood and even the wire holding them in place was from a disused mouse cadge he discovered buried in a hedge. I took a closer look at them and began to see past the price I was paying to the real piece of unique artwork. On producing a fifty pound note Tom looked rather shocked saying he’d have to get me some change. I should have stopped him right there, considering all the free admissions I’d had to his studio. I felt a little embarrassed when he returned from the house with a five pound note, but by then it was too late to return it, and so said “it’ll go towards my next purchase”, feeling myself flushing with embarrassment, as if my little contribution was about to change his miserable monthly sales figure. However having made one purchase, like those fish I’m hooked and I will be saving my pennies for another piece of his work.

 

Tom.

She’s been back and bought one of the fish. Sent me a text message and I actually managed to write and return a message. It was only afterward she whipped out a fifty pound note that I felt I’d totally under-priced the fish, she must be loaded, but hay-how there’s no going back.

I was in the workshop when she appeared and I tried to explain what I was doing, but I could see it went way over her head. I can well see why most people would only see a pile of useless old wood. The difference is a bit like cooking. One person will work from a recipe book and will purchase anything that they don’t already have in the cupboard. I work in the completely opposite way, yes maybe consult books for ideas, but then it’s a matter of looking what’s in the cupboard or garden and concocting something with that. So, with the Hebridean chairs I look at my stock of wood and see what it might make. I learnt this skill when in my early twenties I opened an antique shop. That first winter was a hard one with the sales for December not even covering the rent. When talking to a friend David he suggested I should take in some restoration work. I put three old chairs in the bay window in varying states of repair with one fully restored. The work flooded in, but only chairs, so within three weeks I had to redo my window display such was the backlog of work. Every Saturday afternoon I would go over to see David in his large workshop and learnt all about faking furniture. He was a master at forgery, and it was from him that I learnt how to look at and piece together various wrecks. From the remains of a gate-leg table, the top of a coffer and some old backboards from a wardrobe would come a Welsh dresser. Highly desirable back then, but today almost worthless.

 That same method of working applies to my chair making today, only now it is the principal of recycling that has become of primary importance. If I see a pile of old wood that has obviously been thrown out for burning I’ll stop and ask. The answer is always, help yourself, and I do. There is, and never will be any question of payment. If I can make something from other peoples rubbish, then the knowledge that what they have discarded is to some extent being recycled is no different to when they put it in the recycling bin, they feel better in having done their part.

So Tottie caught me at the very beginning of the process. I’d already got as far as putting bits of wood to one side and seen the rough idea of what was possible, but now it was down to cutting up and bashing together what would have been quite common place for people living in the Outer Hebrides a hundred ago. At that time the reuse of old wood produced its own vernacular style based on rational needs. The need for a chair to support ones weight is still a rational need for us older folk. When I was young I tended to always end up on the floor to drawing.

Several years ago, while searching for sea glass in Stornoway harbour during a very low tide I found some old bits of wood under the pier. I’d already used part of a wide plank for the top of a book case and what remained would be ideal for a chair seat. I had plenty of old flooring boards, back boards and sarking for the rest, but a bunch of old hinges, all that was left from a burnt drop-leaf table caught my eye and gave me another idea. Why not add a little side flap extension for resting a wee dram. The robust construction is done almost entirely using screws and glue, while the paint finish is another case of whatever leftovers I have to hand, and what colour they will make if mixed. Painting furniture made from a mixture of reused woods was a common practice throughout the 19^th century, and particularly so in Ireland and the west coast of Scotland.

To my chair I wanted to add some history, not only with a goodly amount of wear and tear plus dirt, but also a little childlike artistic experimentation, scratched into the surface of the paint, perhaps when there was no paper to hand.

The initials on the front could well be that of the owner, and that again was a common practice, to brand furniture with the old branding iron used on horns to mark ownership of sheep, but also tools and furniture. When I started work on repairing the old barn I discovered masses of initials scratched and carved in the roof timbers and in particular an old door. These were made by itinerant sheep shearer from as far away as Glasgow. Proud to be able to write their name and leave their mark. Although what you see here is invented history and a total fabrication, my signature is discretely placed out of site. It tickles me to think that in years to come they might find their way into a museum with no doubt a somewhat spurious description.