As a biographer, I explore an artist’s psychological motives
and historical moments. Nothing has made me more aware of the significance
of so-called distractions in a subject’s life than my own
recent experience of shaping my second book project.
After my work on the African American novelist Ralph Ellison was reviewed in
The New York Times, my friends implored me to write another as soon as I could.
It took a year, though, to sort through the rich field of compelling African
American literary figures awaiting contemporary biographies. And when I finally
settled on a subject, the work of shaping the project was temporarily eclipsed
by a sudden passion for an entirely different crafting.
The collecting of materials had begun in earnest, and I started feeling out publishers
and middlemen. I knew I needed to sharpen that ignoble hooker of fish, a competent
book proposal. And it was then that I discovered the joys of woodworking. Phyllis
Wheatley’s searching poem imploring inspiration from the Muses and even
the Mantuan Sage’s homeboys has nothing on the butcher block slab riding
a sawhorse and some glue. “Hear me propitious, defend my lays,” she
asked in 1773.
The muse for me begins to speak through my wife Regine’s
off-hand remark about the space under the living room window. She
has dimensions in her head that I will give birth to. As the proposal
begins to smolder on my computer, I catch holy fire in the woodshed
with mitre-box saw.
A console table, my lifeblood now, would stand 27 inches high and
nestle underneath the window. Its special feature would be a tray
slung way under the belly, only five inches or so off the ground.
I would stain jet mahogany whatever wood I got from one of the
local home repair supermarkets. I want a rich look.
The idea of it gets underneath my skin, and no telephone, e-mail or dream of
biographer’s Orion can interrupt me. I drive to the local denizen of
wayward husbands with a hazy vision, a misplaced scrap of paper with the measurements,
and a credit card.
Because poplar is so pretty, so smooth and dense, colored and without blemish,
I decide that I will have a plank tabletop, not a single solid piece of wood
on the piece. Shoppers bustle past, partially assemble their own projects,
or move the tanker-like gurneys down the aisle while I figure out how to secure
the tabletop to the legs. At checkout they’re as gracious as car salesmen.
Although the bill is nearly double what I’d estimated, I don’t
hesitate.
I do, however, seriously consider purchasing a table saw and an electric planer.
The next morning I glance at the computer with its attendant worries. I ignore
its mewling for additional drafts and rounds on the telephone and e-mail brown-nosing
support. With my fatigues on and a punch for my hammer, I’m confident the
press of my dreams is sending a long, inviting letter, volunteering to clear
permissions for me and bringing in the high-powered editor who’ll help
me write those stylish sentences out of A.J. Liebling with the thoroughness
of Richard Ellmann.
Once I cross the threshold into the garage, my mind is at ease. Now the sawing
begins in earnest. Once I have the boards sized, I apply liquid nails to bind
them like a solid sheet. It’s a struggle for more than an hour to level
the pieces, keep the edge a true line, and scrape off the permanent adhesive
as it seeps through the gaps.
When I’ve assembled the entire piece, a quantity of wood filler and shims
patches up the joints. And I am at work on an ode to my forbears from South
Hill, Va., who worked with their hands. I start thinking maybe I should write
a biography of slave joiners and cabinetmakers.
Finally I add the trim to the piece, the last step, before sanding it down.
My greatest single investment is in an elite brand of gel-stain from the hardware
store. The one thing I don’t learn there is that I shouldn’t use
an aerosol finish in the high humidity of Atlanta. When I finally varnish the
table, it looks as if it has been coated with a mist of fine sand. In hopes
of salvaging furniture and pride, I start polishing. We have Pine Wax, Pledge,
oil soap and a special secret spray, all lemon scented. After working myself
into a lather, I am rewarded with an unctuous but temporary gleam.
But I can’t stop beaming after my sweaty accomplishment is dry. I sit
on the back step, stare contentedly, and touch it. When I come home,
I check on it, like I am waiting for the new baby to make its first step. It’s
not fine woodworking; just nails and screws and glue and filler. But no one can
deny the life now filling the space that before had been empty. That I could
conceive of it, plan it and turn out a passable version in a few days—that
there was no faxing, copying, e-mailing or months of waiting. An 8 1/2 by 11
package didn’t fly thousands of miles and still need somebody’s approval
to get into long pants. It is. I’m thinking I could have been a surgeon,
or at least a mechanic. Plus, my wife tells me I am reconnecting with my working-class
roots.
Four months later the hardware store expert sells me another $10 bottle of spray
to remove the humidity from the first sandy finish. I can hear the jibes; I am
a bit incredulous myself. I admit that the table actually took longer to finish
than the proposal. But sometimes one craft makes a space where another can take
shape.
This essay first appeared in the April/May 2004 issue of The Academic
Exchange (available online at www.emory.edu/ACAD_EXCHANGE/) and
is reprinted with permission.
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