THE SUSTAINABLE HOME

Designer Sebastian Cox on the joys of using and caring for heirloom tools

Ispent an evening last week cleaning, sharpening and tuning a woodworking plane that belonged to my great grandfather. He was a carpenter and builder, and had passed the plane, along with other tools, on to my grandfather, who I call Poppa. In a lump-in-throat afternoon in Poppa’s attic a decade ago, he bequeathed me his father’s tools. I use some of the shoulder planes regularly, but hadn’t made the time to restore the most tired looking tool in the collection – his Norris smoothing plane. Sadly, Poppa died recently and, having learned that most coffins are chipboard boxes, I wanted to make his coffin. I couldn’t have him returned to the earth in chipboard.

Coincidentally, I have a commission for an engagement ring and a cot, completing the circle of life. As furniture makers, we rarely get the opportunity to transcend the everyday and make something profound. In making coffins and cots we elevate in importance, creating the architecture of the ceremony of welcoming, or bidding farewell to, life. It truly humbles me.

My reason for sharpening away late into the night was that I wanted to use the pre-war planes to make the coffin. Had my great grandfather known his tools would make his son’s coffin long after he’s gone, I think he would have been moved. It feels impossible today to imagine this three generations ahead, but perhaps it may have seemed plausible to my great grandfather, living in a less disposable world. I felt very emotional working on them, but also found the process healing.

When you sharpen a tool, you must first flatten the back before addressing the edge. This can take hours as you grind the metal away with fine stones. The smell of microscopic metal filings in water and leather is unique. I posted about it on Instagram to ask if anyone else has tools special to them. I logged back in later with floods of heartfelt responses with examples of family tools being used and cared for; social media at its best.

The responses put me in mind of The Repair Shop, a popular TV show presented by designer and furniture restorer Jay Blades reminding us of the power of objects and the emotion they hold. Almost every episode has contributors in tears as they return to pick up the objects left with the expert repairers. Jay, a chum of mine, explained to me that what they are actually repairing is the pain of the contributors – healing them through the act of restoring their objects.

I wonder, if we had a stronger culture of making again, would the TV show exist? Would the concept have been possible a few decades ago when hand skills were a necessary part of life – when you repaired your own car, furniture and clothes? Perhaps it’s because we’re now unable to repair things, and objects are on the verge of being lost, that emotion runs high? I’m not sure. As I worked on my great grandfather’s plane, I experienced a surge of joy and sadness at the passing of lives but the renewing of their possessions and memories. For me, it wasn’t that the plane was restored, but that I had restored it with my hands. The investment of many hours of time helped me process the pain of his passing.

My uncle, Poppa’s son, used the plane the next day to help shave the coffin lid. Four generations united by one tool became an extremely powerful moment, binding two living generations with two passed on. I’m not sure that degree of magic is possible without a material world of objects that are made to last, to be repaired, and the skills and will to find healing with our hands.