Last of the artisans
Ina technological age bound by speed and mass production, Judith Ritchie meets artisans who make a living from skills passed down through generations.
Main street Waikouaiti, east Otago. A typical small town with standard service shops – hardware, a petrol station, retro collectibles and a small supermarket.
It’s on State Highway 1 where huge trucks rumble through. Many stop at the local bakery, known for the best pies around.
But there’s one shop front that looks like it’s from another era – painted rustic red with creepers shrouding the walls. On the roof, a faded sign announces: ‘‘Eddie Todd Saddle Maker.’’
The shop’s smudgy display window and recessed entrance belie the activity that has gone on inside for more than 35 years.
This is the working space of one of the South Island’s last remaining saddle makers and all round character, Eddie Todd.
Born and bred in Waikouaiti, Todd has spent the best part of his life working with leather, handling horses and spinning a good yarn or two. Now in his mid 60s, Todd’s head of wild white hair waves about as he talks about his love of saddle making.
‘‘I love getting up in the morning and look forward to making saddles,’’ he says. ‘‘It’s great, I have flexible hours, in between making a saddle I can take a trip to the West Coast and flit about.’’
No longer a shop these days, Todd’s business activity is mainly out the back in the workshop.
Step inside through the open siding door and the senses are bombarded by floor to ceiling clutter of off-cuts, bits of paper, the odd tool, all tossed exactly where Todd can reach for them. A pleasant smell of raw and oiled leather fills the air.
A rust encrusted pot belly pumps out welcome heat, while the cracks in the walls reveal the tendrils of creeping vines. The unlined pitched ceiling, shrouded by layers of cobwebs, features a series of skylights. Milky with age, they let enough light into the space on a dull afternoon.
Todd is at work, hand sanding a high country saddle, one of 12 to 15 he makes each year. He also makes rodeo-style saddles. At between five and six thousand dollars per saddle, they are works of art, prized by their owners, handed down through generations. Some bespoke saddles are embossed with decorative tooling like stamped images of kowhai and fantails which embellish beautiful tan leather.
As a younger bloke Todd loved pulling things apart. While working as a stockman on Mavora Station, near Te Anau in Fiordland in the 1980s, he taught himself the art of saddle making by doing it on the job.
To make the saddle, Todd starts with a ‘‘saddle tree’’ which is a shaped structure made from laminates of wood, used for the seating area of the saddle. They are hand made by another artisan, Warren Wright, in Tauranga. Todd reckons Wright is the last dedicated saddle tree maker in the country.
Central in the workshop, there’s a big pattern cutting table. Todd says he doesn’t use patterns, he does it ‘‘by eye’’, each saddle having a different pattern which he then bins. There’s a big leather walking foot sewing machine on the bench, essential for stitching the sections of leather together.
By dampening the pattern pieces Todd says it’s easier to shape them over the saddle tree. Other machinery sits around the room; a large hole punch, eyelet maker, rivet maker and a ‘‘stitching pony’’, used to hand sew the leather. They appear ancient, wellloved and bordering on collectable. A wall of old wooden boxes reveal buckles and stirrups, and other metal bits essential in saddle construction.
There are names for the saddles depending on the style: Houston, Wade and then there’s the Molesworth stock saddles.
‘‘Most are reasonably plain but change with fashion and some have tooling which I like adding to a saddle,’’ Todd says.
As we chat a local farmer pops in. He asks if Todd can supply some stretchy cable for around a vinyl cover. Todd strides across the worksop, plucking the cable off a cluttered bench. A length is
I love the complete absorption with the task. Bookbinder Rosie Anne Pinney
measured and cut while there’s a bit of friendly banter going on. A price is agreed upon and with a nod between men, the payment will be made another day.
Times are changing. Todd now imports leather from reputable companies in America and laments the loss of tanneries in New Zealand.
‘‘There were two in Dunedin and one in Mosgiel, and the last one in the country was located in Auckland,’’ says Todd. ‘‘But that all ended about 15 years ago.’’
He used to make horse covers but says it’s getting harder to get good canvas in this country. There had been a shoe maker, a farrier and blacksmith in the region but all have now gone.
Todd’s not sure about the future of saddle making. The challenge for him these days is competing with cheap imports. Saddles made in India and Mexico retail online for $500. But he says there are still the people out there who want a bespoke saddle that they know will last a lifetime.
‘‘It would be neat to see saddles made in New Zealand into the future,’’ Todd says. ‘‘I hope there will always be people around with a few dollars to buy a custom made saddle.’’
BOOK BINDING THE OLD WAY
Bookbinding requires absolute precision and focus, something that drew Rosie Anne Pinney to the art.
‘‘I love the complete absorption with the task, it suits my sense of perfectionism,’’ says Pinney. ‘‘There’s an inner peace when I’m completely focussed and present.’’
Tucked away in a small shed behind her suburban home in central Nelson, Pinney spends long hours constructing and restoring books. One of a few remaining bookbinders in the region, she learnt the art from a master bookbinder, Christine Carr, then took over the business from her three years ago.
Pinney, also an art historian and librarian, runs Cambria Craft Bindery. Using traditional techniques, she binds a range of publications from business minutes and academic thesis to the local Nelson Mail newspaper. She spends a lot of her time fixing spines on old books and family heirlooms.
Her shed is packed with tools of the trade. These include a cast iron book press, large paper guillotine, sewing frame, backing press and rolls of coloured linen.
‘‘I enjoy that I am one of a continuing line of bookbinders, with many of my tools and pieces of equipment being passed down by retired bookbinders.’’
Next door in the garage, a heavy cast iron German-made Krause blocking press dominates the space.
The press must be turned on for several hours to heat up ready for gold foiling text onto the spine of a book. A large cast iron handle is used to pull the full weight of the machine down onto the foil and linen fabric.
Either side of the press are two large type chests, large drawers filled with a huge range of separate pieces of lead fonts. A quick calculation reveals over 20,000 individual pieces of type in one chest.
For Pinney and her clients, the difference between machineproduced and hand-made books is the human touch.
‘‘Working with your hands gives it life,’’ says Pinney. ‘‘The feel of the leather in your hand, the paper, is all tactile and each book has a character of it’s own.’’
Pinney thinks there will always be a place for bookbinders because people have a reverence for beautiful old books, and a love of hand-bound new books, that are unique.
‘‘I think the future of books is they will be beautifully printed, perhaps doing a full circle and becoming a treasured object like in the Roman, Chinese and Egyptian times.’’
A PASSION FOR BODYBOARDS
It’s been a while since Ian Jonson made his first wooden bodyboard at Waimea Intermediate in Nelson. Back in 1964 he biked to Tahunanui Beach, newly finished board tucked under his arm. Now aged 67, taking to the water and powering back in on the waves still thrills him.
Jonson makes bodyboards using hand tools, coining them by the traditional Hawaiian name, Paipo, or in Maori, Kopapa.
‘‘What I love is the peace and quiet when you’re working with hand tools,’’ says Jonson. ‘‘There’s no need for earmuffs, goggles or safety boots.’’
He’s amassed a workshop full of hand tools, including those passed down by his father and carpenter grandfather.
‘‘It’s the satisfaction of working with wood and using the old tools, you learn to master them,’’ says Jonson. ‘‘You also learn their history.’’
Jonson works from his home, sitting high up on the hills with sweeping views across Tasman Bay. He’s not often found taking in the view though, preferring to get on with projects.
His workshop under the house has tools lining the walls, some growing cobwebs, others glinting in the light.
A huge collection of hand saws, boasting carvings on the wooden handles, sit below small tools of all descriptions. Hand planes of different sizes sit on a dusty shelf; a Stanley smoothing plane dates back to 1890. An antique ledger book provides large pages for sketches.
Made from local western red cedar, his long boards sell for $575 and some shorter body boards for kids are priced at $175.
Jonson joins two 50mm thick planks together using ‘biscuit’ joints, small oblong slithers of wood glued into slots in each plank. The biscuit joiner is the only power tool he uses.
He’s careful to shape the ‘rocker’, where the nose turns up at the front of the board to prevent pearling, or in layman’s terms, a nose dive. Each board has a ‘sweet spot’, the centre of balance, where you should lie.
‘‘You’re forward enough that you catch the wave, without burying the nose, because next thing you’re upside down and there’s all bubbles everywhere,’’ says Jonson. ‘‘I’m a master at doing that.’’
Once shaped, sanded and oiled, the board is ready. Now, it’s back to the beach and time to catch a wave.
‘‘You ride the wild surf up the beach and feel really great coming out of the water.’’